Locked in Each Other's Gaze
by Raxacoriocofallapatorius
Summary: Humans were once split in two: Head and Heart. By now most are whole enough to be called normal, but there is always that one special case. If a Head is without a Heart, they are cold and emotionless. If a Heart is without a head, they are without reason. Heads and Hearts must find each other to survive. But the real question is how do you know when you've found your other half. AU
1. Chapter 1

**(A/N: This is something that came to me whilst reading another Sherlock fanfiction. It was heavy Johnlock and the idea just went ****_pop_**** into my mind. Damn plot-bunnies... Right now I'm working on a lot of stories that I try (and fail) to update regularly, so this one is gonna be a side project. I'll update when the chapters are done, and that will be infrequently. Tell me what you think and if I should follow up. Enjoy!)**

* * *

"According to Greek Mythology, humans were originally created with four arms, four legs and a head with two faces. Fearing their power, Zeus split them into two separate beings, condemning them to spend their lives in search of their other halves."  
-Plato's _The Symposium_

* * *

"It used to be said that people held both hearts and mind, both love and logic, and the world was at peace. But a war erupted, splitting the people into two factions, Heads and Hearts. They warred for many years perfectly matched, neither able to gain an advantage. Well time passed, many battles were fought and many lives were lost. Eventually the reason for the fighting was lost to whispers. Neither side saw any reason or point in continuing the futile war and ceased all confrontations. Life found its own schedule once more, Hearts and Heads working together to rebuild their cities, and the halves began to grow whole again, slowly but surely.

"Still today some people are more Head than Heart or vice versa. Others are close to their equilibrium and a few have obtained that perfect balance again. But... there are still those that seek our that other half, that survive with just a Head or just a Heart. They are the saddest cases for they can never truly be human until they find their other half. The ONE person that literally completes them. Hearts have the easier time of the two, their compassion and love forging friendships and easily liked. Heads struggle with the simplest of manners and are usually alienated and scorned, their logic and observations biting and blatantly honest. Thankfully halves like these are few and far between. But that also means that their missing piece could be anywhere. Or anyone. Only time can tell if the Heart and Head are truly one."

A young boy looked up at an older woman with wide, eyes. "Why did you stop, Gia?" The grandmother looked down at the boy in her arms and smiled softly.

"Because, sweet child," she said, running her fingers through the boy's blond, silky hair, "there is no more." The boy's eyes got wider, if possible, and full of despair.

"But," his lip began to tremble, "but there's no happy ending. I like happy endings. And this isn't happy." Tears began to silently fall, hot and fast. Gia wrapped him into a warm hug.

"Oh, no John. Sweet, dear John. No," she pulled back, looking down at John's red face and gently wiping away a few tears with her thumb. "Don't be sad. You know why? That's not the end." The tears stopped, but the boy's face twisted with confusion.

"It's not?" he asked tentatively. Gia shook her head, smiling.

"No. And," she leaned in a little, lowering her voice, "do you want to hear a secret?" John nodded enthusiastically, eyes alight. Gia drew closer and began to whisper, "This story doesn't have an ending because..." she paused to glance around as if searching for an unwelcome listener, "no one has written it yet. They're waiting for the right ending." Gia pulled back, her wide smile mirroring John's.

"So _I _could write it? _I_ could give it a happy ending?" He asked excitedly, bouncing up and down in the bed. Gia nodded, but John calmed and his smile fell. "But... I want to be a doctor or a soldier and help save people," he muttered, head down.

Gia gently lifted his head. "Why can't you be both?" John's eyes grew wide once more, full of confusion and hope. "Why can't you be an army doctor, that way you can help save and fix people, _and_ write just for fun."

"Just for fun?" John asked slowly, as if trying the words out.

"Yes," Gia smiled again. "Just for fun." John smiled up at his favorite, albeit only, grandmother, yawning a little.

"Good. I'll do that," John managed between yawns. "I'll help fix and save people and write just for fun." John yawned again, snuggling down under the covers. "And everybody will get a happy ending." John stilled, he breathing evening out, with a smile on his face.

Gia stood, tucking the duvet under John, before placing a single kiss on John's forehead. "_Kalhnyxta kai oneira glyka_," she murmured as she walked to the door and turned off the overhead, the only light coming from the hallway. Just before closing the door behind her, Gia turned back and whispered, "I hope you find a head worthy of your heart."

* * *

That was the last time John saw his grandmother. She died in a car crash on the ride home a couple nights later. When John heard the news, he was inconsolable. And when he finally calmed, after crying himself into a fretful slumber, he uttered naught a word for three days. His father told him to "man up." His mother called him "sensitive." His sister only pulled his ears and called him a "pansy." In the years to come, John thought of his dear Gia many times, pulling from her words of wisdom to help with his explosive temper and using her words of kindness to soften the bullies' blows. But he never really thought about that last night.

John worked hard in school studying every night, excluding the occasional date, until he did well on his A levels. He got a scholarship to medical school, paying for a majority of the tuition, and earned his title of Doctor Watson. Not a week later, John Hamish Watson enlisted in the army.

Not a month later, he was deployed to Afghanistan.

John quickly gained respect as a surgeon. He was quick, efficient, and rarely lost a patient. His charges found him sweet, sympathetic, understanding, and they rarely had a bad thing to say about the small Doctor. But John Hamish Watson was no pushover. He may be kind, but if he found something wrong, morally or otherwise, he would not hesitate to speak up. But he would do so respectfully and with tact which gained him respect of his superiors. When Doctor Watson spoke up, you'd listen no matter your rank.

Then the unthinkable happened.

A bomb went off in the mess hall. One minute idle chatter and the clinking of silverware, the next chaos. Within seconds thirty people are injured, ten are blown out of their seats, and five are dead. John was just headed to his seat in the mess hall when the explosion occurred, but he only suffered from multiple minor lacerations. Without a thought, Doctor Watson leapt into action, pulling people from the burning rubble to safety and tending to the most injured before dealing with simpler things like breaks or cuts.

Within five minutes, a majority of the survivors were out of the ruins of the mess hall and those in immediate danger were stabilized and safe for transportation to surgery to receive proper care. Within seven minutes, the base was swarming with medical teams, all of them hearing the amazing tale of John's bravery and selflessness. Within nine minutes, the story had travelled the grape vine up the ranks till it had reached the Brigadier's ears. Within ten minutes, John Hamish Watson was unofficially named a hero.

When Doctor Watson finally stopped seeing to the needs of others, a majority of his initial small cuts and scrapes had scabbed over. However, during rescuing his fellow officers, John gained more injuries and now sported minor burns on his shoulders, neck, and arms as well as deeper cuts on his arms, legs, and chest. Once the adrenaline fled his system, John staggered to the closest medical tent before collapsing.

When he awoke, John's wounds had been tended to and a small crowd had gathered. John was confused, but it was quickly explained that the explosion took only soldiers, both dead and injured so badly they need to be invalided home. John sighed heavily, feeling the loss on his own shoulders. But, because of John's heroics and quick reaction, the number lost is exponentially less than it would have been. As a reward, Doctor John Hamish Watson is promoted to rank of Captain.

John is struck dumb, but the numbness is quickly replaced with an overwhelming feeling of honor. However, his rank comes with a stipulation. Because of the numbers lost, some of the medical staff had been chosen to be on the front lines. John readily accepts, happy to help in any way he can. The wounds heal quickly and soon John is in tip top shape once more.

A quick briefing on basic gun terminology and safety procedures later, Doctor John Hamish Watson is being given a crash course in shooting, in case the frontline medics need to defend themselves or take out an enemy. John takes to it like a fish to water, his accuracy almost impossibly high for a man that hadn't wielded a gun prior to that day. And he finds comfort in the weight of the solid gun in his hand, in the kick of the recoil, in the sound of the bullet firing. And, for some inexplicable reason, John is looking forward to getting out the base.

Until he actually finds himself on the front lines.

The hell he finds in those dunes will haunt him for days and weeks and months and years to come. Every life lost, whether theirs or the "enemy's", left a dull ache in his chest. His days become empty echoes of the peace he knew, now filled with blood and pain. The war seemed endless. John feared he'd be trapped forever.

But then a miracle occurs.

One of John's subordinates is injured and, being who he is, Captain Watson dashes over to his fallen comrade. He patches the injured man up to the best of his abilities, but as he's pulling them to better cover, John is shot through the shoulder. A red-hot flare erupts from his left shoulder, just below the collarbone, and, in a rush of adrenaline, John gets the man to safety before collapsing himself.

When he wakes a week later, John is sitting in a bed, his shoulder and leg throbbing. When the nurses notice he's awake and lucid, they call over a doctor who calmly explains to Captain Watson that he was shot in his left shoulder, through-and-through thank God, and is being invalided home.

A mix of emotions rush through John. He's elated that he's finally off those front lines. He's overjoyed to have the chance to see home again. But he also feels an immense loss. John is unable to pinpoint what exactly he'll be missing, but for some reason that one loss outweighs the happiness that is sure to come.

Three days later, John is released and deemed safe to travel. And he leaves the deserts of Afghanistan, his home of five years.

And he feels like he is heading towards something better.

And somehow feels inexplicably empty.

* * *

**(A/N: Well hello there. What did you think? I'd really love to know. I'm definitely not finished with this world. I've only just begun. I'll update when I can. But seriously. Review. Please. :3**

FYI: Gia, as John calls his grandmother, is a shorter version of _giagiá _which means grandmother in Greek. _Kalhnyxta kai oneira glyka _is Greek for "Goodnight and sweet dreams." All bits, present and future, in Greek are from Google Translate, so if they are incorrectly phrased or spelled or aren't what I'm trying to say, feel free to let me know. I felt that I should give John that connection to Greece and the ancient Greek mythology. I hope it works well. :D)


	2. Chapter 2

**(A/N: Wow. I received such an onslaught of praise for my first chapter, I got to work on the second right away. You guys seriously inspired me. :) Thank you so much. Special thanks to xSommerRegen, My Thyla My Captain, CrimsomAzureRose, tosinadekunle, and I'm Nova who reviewed so quickly. I posted the first chapter literally at 11:30pm and when I woke to find so many supportive reviews I honestly nearly started crying in class. Thank you so much. :3 I hope you guys like this one just as much.)**

Ever since a young age, Sherlock had known that he was different from others, more withdrawn and less emotional. When his peers would grow excited or upset, Sherlock would simply feel indifferent, with perhaps just a light buzz of annoyance, but nothing anywhere near the range of the other children. One day, he asked his older brother Mycroft point-blank why he was so different. His brother simply shrugged and said it was the Holmes' way; that they are simply more intelligent than the masses and while they initially resent them, as others grow older they will see it for what it really is: a higher intellect.

Sherlock took Mycroft to his word and waited. Waited for others to stop teasing him. Waited for them to see how smart he really was. Waited to find at least _one _other person who could see the world like he could; _one _other person who saw those small details and connected the dots like he could. But no matter how long he waited it seemed that there was no end in sight, no light at the end of the tunnel.

And then, perhaps three years after that conversation, Sherlock begins to observe his brother. His brother was intelligent and observational and rarely missed anything, just like Sherlock. He acted superior, as if the rest of the world wasn't worth his attention, just like Sherlock. But he had friends, or connections as Mycroft preferred to call them. He had friends and acquaintances and business partners and while some of them did scorn him behind his back, none of them truly despised Mycroft like the rest of the world seemed to despise Sherlock.

So Sherlock set out to figure what was wrong with him. Because something must be. Something _has _to be because when he sees the other children play and fight and sit alone, Sherlock can see that they feel so much, but he only ever feels numb. Even when he's being verbally abused by his peers. Therefore Sherlock does what he does best, hit the books.

One day after school, Sherlock made a small base in his family library. He began his search in the medical texts, from physical ailments to mental disabilities. He found many interesting articles and studies on reactions to certain stimuli as well as documentation of multiple circumstances in which mental ailments escalated to a dangerous level. Sherlock spent many minutes exploring those specific articles before moving on to more … unorthodox texts.

Sherlock stepped between the tall bookcases, gazing up at the thick, ancient tomes. A few stray curls fell in his eyes as he climbed a ladder to retrieve one of the more precious books. Sherlock carefully cradled it under his arm as he worked his way back down, tentatively placing each foot till he felt the solid ground under his toes. With his bare feet flat on the hardwood floor, Sherlock took the time to glance at the title before dashing off to find a secluded corner to read it in: _Ancient Greek Myths and Legends_. Sherlock settled down and eagerly opened the tome.

* * *

_The Greeks have had many myths and legends that reflect on how we as a people were made and people's history. But probably one of the most obscure and radical of their myths is the _Diaíresi̱_, or split, legend. This particular lore insinuates that the original human was a being with four arms, four legs, and two faces, but Zeus feared their power, their ingenuity and ability to make, so he split them into the forms that we know today: two arms, two legs, and one face. In his effort to disable that which Prometheus created, Zeus split man so the pieces that allowed them to imagine and create where now separate: heart and head. The people who once lived as one now lived together, whole and harmonious, and peace reigned._

The Hearts, as they began to identify themselves as, were an emotional sort. They empathized, sympathized, and felt so much. They were seen as the more creative of the two, having that spark of imagination, but also as the more heroic of the two, caring for even a stranger and willing to do anything to protect or save them. Hearts had no issue in making companions, most people finding their demeanor welcoming.

Heads, on the other hand, preferred seclusion to company, their bluntness usually dispels any efforts to make acquaintance. The Heads, however, could be described as coldhearted when they simply did not feel. Their mind was where their strengths lay, logic and intelligence coming more than naturally to them. Where the Hearts would jump to save a complete stranger and sacrifice anything to protect others, if there was benefit from letting a person die or be injured, they would simply allow it to happen: collateral damage as it were.

Their previous way of life continued as if nothing had changed; those who were once one are joined in holy matrimony, together, in almost every sense of the word, with their other half. Zeus was enraged that his efforts were so far for naught, so he took his plan a step farther. He convinced Ares, god of war, to ignite a dispute between the two halves. The initial quarrel began within the city council and escalated to a point where the council was split into factions: Heads versus Hearts. The break in unity spread to the people themselves and all peace was lost. War broke out. Families were divided and fought against themselves, earning the war the name Adelfoktónou_, brother against brother._

Both the Hearts and Heads had advantages over the other, causing the war to remain in a stalemate a majority of the time. The Heads had a more tactical advantage; with their ability to create elaborate plans with multiple alternative plans of attack in case something unexpected, yet not unforeseen, occurs, the Heads are able to pull of many devastating attacks against the Hearts, but it takes weeks on end to plan for all possible outcomes so there is a large amount of time between sieges. However the Hearts were able to hold their own against the Head's attacks; their trustworthy gut feelings helping them in battle and their natural sympathetic nature allowing the Hearts to treat patients quickly, efficiently, and effectively. Due to these balances, the Adelfoktόnou _War lasted many generations._

_Eventually, the reason for the war was lost. Heads defected to Hearts and vice versa. Cross breeding of the two factions occurred and soon children were born, bearing characteristics of both their parents, closing the gap between emotion and logic that Zeus created in a fit of fear. After an estimate of five generations, a little more than a century, the fighting stopped and the people were peaceful once more. But the legend does not end there._

There are those who still believe strongly in this particular story, that even though a majority of the populace is as close to that initial balance due to breeding, there are those few that are still either a Head or Heart: wholly logic or emotion. They believe that for every Head born there is a Heart somewhere, their omólogó_, or counterpart. Their souls intertwined and destined to meet. Soul mates in search of their other half. But these stories usually breed tragedy as opposed to romance. The two, destined to be together, almost never actually meet, the distance too far or the Heart settles with another whilst the Head remains alone._

Truly one of the most obscure legends, but also one of the most tragic. To be destined for greatness, but left incomplete due to circumstance must be a cruel fate indeed.

* * *

Sherlock closed the book and took a deep breath, releasing it slowly. The discovery humming in his veins. So many layers to his ailment. _I'm a Head. I must be,_ he thought solemnly, gazing down at the tome. And suddenly he was struck with a rush of hope quickly followed by a wave of loneliness. Heads aren't as emotionless as the synopsis seemed to imply.

But Sherlock, for the first time that he could remember, was stunned. There was someone out there that was just for him. His perfect match. His _omólogó_. But they would probably never be together. How would he even know when, _if_, he'd met his Heart. It was a hopeless dream, one that rose up despite all his efforts to squash it down. Sherlock carefully put the book back from where he got it.

Sherlock made his way to his room, bare feet slapping against the cold floor.

And he lay on his bed, exhausted from the largest emotional onslaught he'd ever experienced.

And he dreamt of who could possibly be his Heart.__

**(A/N: Hullo there again. Chapter two finished and done. :D Just building the story now. I hope you guys like it so far. :3 Let me know by reviewing.**

More translations. In case you forget, or were just curious, **_Diaíresi _****quite literallymeans split. ****_Adelfoktόnou _****means brother against brother. And, last but not least, ****_Omólogó _****means counterpart. As with the last chapter, and all future chapters, I got my translations from Google Translate. If anything is wrong, whether a translation or something grammatical in the story itself, feel free to let me know. Thanks for reading.)**


	3. Chapter 3

**(A/N: I am taken aback at the serious response I've received for this story. Two chapters. TWO CHAPTERS, and not even a week old, and I've got more views this month than the story that I've been working on for six months and posted three chapters in succession. I really do appreciate how much you guys seem to like this one. :D**

Special mention: Apparently

**_adelfoktόnou _****doesn't mean "brother against brother" so much as it means "brother killing brother". A happy accident, I assure you, that was brought to my attention by I'm Nova. Many much thanks. :D**

Anyways, I've rambled enough. I hope you enjoy this most recent installment.)

For the next few months, Sherlock worried and wondered about his _omólógo_, his heart, his counterpart. He created this image of his other half in his head, interacting with his Heart in many different situations. Sherlock daydreamed of how they would meet and at night they would go on many different adventures, forgetting the world and simply content in each other's presence.

But as time passed, Sherlock grew older and the dream of his other half fell away to nothing. Soon he was in secondary school and quickly learned that he was an outcast in every aspect. Sherlock's intellect belittled and frightened others and his grades threw the curves, turning every peer against him. Sherlock felt no qualms about spouting all of his instructors' secrets for all the world to know and so even the teachers despised him.

Sherlock easily made it to uni, both his grades and money getting him into the best university available. There he met Sebastian Wilks, his dorm-mate with a wide smile and bright future. Sherlock made no change in his personality. When Sherlock made an effort to actually show up for breakfast, he would gladly tell others off with personal information like who was being unfaithful with who, keeping him shunned and alienated. After his first display, Sherlock dashed back to his room where Sebastian, or Seb as he insisted being called, clapped him on the back laughing heartily. Sherlock simply raised an eyebrow in skepticism. They never last too long.

A few months later, Seb was still rooming with Sherlock and Sherlock began to feel a small sliver of hope. After years of only thinking of his _omólógo _in the occasional dream, had he finally found him? No one else had lasted more than a week or two. Sherlock tried to continue acting the same, disregarding Seb and his friends as he normally would, but he had not been as successful as he'd hoped. Not a week later, Sebastian made his move and kissed Sherlock.

Sherlock was stunned. He'd never been kissed before; even his mother had abstained from showing such affection. And he'd never wanted to be kissed. But there he was, Seb's dry lips pressing against his and he had no idea what to do about it. Eventually Sebastian pulled back, giving Sherlock a lopsided smirk, and intertwined their hands.

Two months. Two more months of a haven. Two more months of finally having warmth present in his chest. Two more months of stolen kisses in the hall, of heated kisses in their room, of frantic groping, of hot hands on cold skin. And then the penny dropped.

Sebastian and Sherlock were languidly kissing in their dorm room after just returning from their final class of the day. Seb carefully moved Sherlock backwards until he was pressed against his bed with Seb flush against him. His hands gently unbuttoned Sherlock's shirt and slid under the fabric, his hands hot and rough making Sherlock automatically flinch back. Sebastian's kisses grew more and more insistent, traveling up and down Sherlock's face and neck, his hands more adventurous. Sherlock lay there and took it.

And then Sebastian's hands moved to unbuckle Sherlock's belt. Sherlock finally responded, pushing his hands away and softly protesting. But Seb simply grinned against his neck and went to undo the belt once more. Sherlock pulled back, sitting up and pushing Seb away more firmly. But he followed and tried again.

"Seb. Stop it, Seb," Sherlock insisted. He began to struggle, trying to keep Sebastian's hands away but not effectively. Soon Sebastian had Sherlock's trousers off and was readily working on his pants. Sherlock grew frantic. The sudden surge of fear after years of a small fluttering emotions made Sherlock's head swim, nausea and bile rising in his throat. "Seb. SEBASTIAN!" Sherlock finally gained an advantage and managed to flip them over and scrambled away to the far side of the room.

"What's the matter, Sherlock?" Sebastian asked, his smirk sickening. "Don't you want me?" He began advancing towards Sherlock. "I'd thought after months and months of putting up with your shit, with _pretending_ to actually _like_ you and _enjoy_ your company, you'd be willing to do something for me. At least let me win the bet." Sherlock flinched from every emphasized word, his stomach dropping with each step Seb took towards him.

Sebastian noticed the pain that danced across Sherlock's face and sneered. "Oh. You thought I _actually_ cared?!" He threw his head back and laughed cruelly and Sherlock felt the fear morph into something worse: anger. Without a second thought, Sherlock launched himself at Sebastian, kicking and punching and biting until Seb pushed Sherlock away.

Sherlock glared down at Seb, who was leaning against the door, and sneered at him, "I cannot believe I wasted two months on _you._" Sebastian slowly stood straighter staring back at Sherlock, all the fire had left his eyes. "Get out. Leave. And never come back," Sherlock kept his voice cold and his eyes hard until the door slammed shut behind Sebastian. Only then did he allow himself to sink to the floor and cry as he felt what little of a heart he had finally died.

* * *

Sherlock spent the next four years skipping class, except to take the tests which he aced anyways, and experimenting with multiple recreational drugs, cocaine his drug of choice. Quickly Mycroft caught wind of his undertakings and tried to interfere, but for all his efforts Sherlock resolutely ignored his elder brother. Soon Sherlock had graduated from university, having only seen glimpses of Sebastian in the hallways, and moved to a flat in London.

After close to a year of continuous appearances at multiple crime scenes, Sherlock meets Sergeant Gregory Lestrade who is, surprisingly, intrigued by Sherlock's deducing abilities instead of instantly put off. Not too soon after, Sherlock's career as a Consulting Detective has taken off as Lestrade began calling him for his opinion on cases.

Sherlock did not stop using, insisting that the cocaine helped sharpened his focus and mind, and even took the time to explore sexually before coming to the conclusion that he preferred men but did not like the effort it took to uphold such a relationship. The weeks and months blurred together till one year turns to two, to three, to four, and soon seven years of helping out the, now, Detective Inspector Lestrade had passed. And Sherlock felt just as empty and alone as someone without a heart could feel. He was certainly told on enough occasions that he lacked such a sentimental organ.

One day he was sitting in his grubby London flat, contemplating how and where he could find a better flat with a reasonable price, riding off the high of his last injection, when his thoughts turned to his childhood. Not three years ago, Sherlock did a mass deletion, going through all the memories and facts that were cluttering his mind palace and ridding himself of the unnecessary ones, so not many of his childhood remained. Save one particular memory of an article he read in an old, dusty tome.

Why he kept that memory, Sherlock couldn't fathom, but whenever he thought about deleting the insignificant moment, something seizes in his chest and he can barely breathe. _Hearts and Heads? Ridiculous,_ he scoffed, skeptic. But after a few moments of reflecting on how high his hopes had flown after he read that small insert, Sherlock couldn't completely write it off. He longed to feel whole, to have a companion, to _feel_. He grimaced, falling back to lay down on the couch, dismissing the idea.

"Even if it were possible," he muttered to the empty air, "it is very unlikely that I'd find anyone willing to put up with me. I'm different. Broken. A freak," Sherlock stated matter-of-fact. He'd definitely been told enough for it to be true. Besides, Einstein did say that repeating an action over and over again and expecting a different outcome is the basis of insanity, so it would be textbook insane for Sherlock to act as himself and anticipate anything other than contempt. Sherlock closed his eyes and dreamt of his _omólógo_ for the first time in years.

* * *

John Hamish Watson lurched forward, a shout dying on his lips, disoriented. His vision cleared and soon saw the drab, grey walls and fell back onto the bed and sighed heavily. When he had learned that he was going home, John couldn't wait to see his family again and visit them out in the country. However upon arrival, he learned that both his parents had died in his time away: his mother from breast cancer and his father from a broken heart. Neither of them had any siblings and all of John's grandparents died when he was young, his Gia being the last to go.

Before he was drafted, John's sister Harriet was engaged to Clara and they were thinking about who would carry their first baby and where they'd get the sperm. When John came back, he found that the child was stillborn, Harriet had filed for a divorce, and was trying to drown her depression in fermented yeast. John tried to visit Clara, because he really did like her and she was wonderful for Harry (having always stuck with her even when she was coming out to their parents), but found via Clara's parents, and very mulish lawyer, that she'd moved to America for a clean start.

Of course John was furious. Not only had no one bothered to write or call to let him know that the family he wished to return to was now nonexistent, but Harry, his now _only _living relative, wasn't sober enough to welcome her only brother when he got off the aeroplane. John had to go on a goose chase to learn all that had occurred in his absence and, during that quest, his healing shoulder wound became septic.

And it was back to the hospital.

White washed walls overwhelmed John for the three months it took him to fight off the infection, which left him far too skinny and weak. Thankfully Harry felt sober enough to pick up John and let him crash at her place till he found a flat that he could keep on an army's pension. Harry had taken residence at Gia's old place located about midway between North Hampton and London. The cleaner air did wonders for John's heath and soon he was gaining strength.

As soon as John felt he was fit enough to handle being on his own, he moved to the flat in the lower skirts of London. If you could call it a flat. It was small and plain with the kitchen (completely stocked with a sink, hotplate, mini-fridge, and two square meters of counter space) and bedroom in one room, with only the sudden appearances of cabinets to mark the transition. The only other room was the loo and that had a sink, toilet, and shower. It wasn't much, but one cannot expect much with an army pension as the only source of income.

John's few clothes easily fit into the small chest-of-drawers that resided in the far corner. He had a desk, directly across from his bed, which housed his laptop, extra sheets of paper, and the gun: the gun he brought home and hides, the gun that protected so few and killed so many, the gun that haunts his nightmares and promises an end to them.

John had expected that once he was in his own place that things would start looking up. They didn't. Things simply grew worse. All while he did his best to properly stretch and exercise his injured shoulder and inexplicably sore leg, the pain never seemed to go away. And his hands never stopped trembling. One day, after a particularly bad nightmare, John could barely get out of bed and limp the few meters to the bathroom to relieve himself. Where physical therapy fails, so does the psychological therapy.

Ella, his therapist who insists that he visits her, spends a majority of their biweekly scheduled hour and a half patiently waiting for John to open up and share something with her. Occasionally she prompts him with a question, but it is always quickly shot down with precision that reflects his impeccable accuracy with a gun as well as his skill as a surgeon. In one session, mayhap a week or so ago, Ella suggests that John begins a blog and writes about how he feels and all he experiences.

John instantly believes it to be a rubbish idea, no idea of hers has yet to do anything, but decides to humor her. That night, he opens the personal blog of Captain Doctor John H. Watson, ex-soldier who was invalided home from an injury received in the line of duty. And it remains blank. Every once in a while, usually after a nightmare, John would sit in front of the screen and stare at the keys. But nothing ever gets typed.

John sighed again, sitting up with a groan, before gripping his cane tightly. He limped the meter or so over to his desk and pulled out his laptop, pausing momentarily to cautiously examine the gun that rest beneath. Shaking his head slightly, John opened the laptop and browser to his blog and stared at the blank page for close to an hour before pulling from his stupor and leaving to visit Ella.

"How's your blog going?" she asked carefully. John gave a half smile and nodded.

"Oh yeah. Good," he fiddled with his cane. "Very… good."

Ella smiled condescendingly, "You haven't written anything, have you?"

"You just wrote 'Still has trust issues'," John deadpanned.

"And you read my writing upside down." Ella shifted in her seat, trying to angle the clipboard so John couldn't see it, and sighed. "You see what I mean? John, you're a soldier. It's gonna take you a while to adjust to civilian life." John shook his head and looked down and away. "And writing a blog about everything that happens to you will honestly help you."

John gave a sour chuckle before sighing heavily. "Nothing happens to me," he muttered, staring down at his trembling, always trembling, hands. _And nothing ever will…_

**(A/N: I don't know why I'm allowed to write. Sometimes I feel like I'm treating them as mean/worse than Moffat and Gatiss and all other writers. Someone should take these characters away from me. At least until I learn how to treat them right… :/ Well good luck with prying them from my cold, ****_dead_**** hands! MWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! }:]**

Anyways, for those who forgot or just wanted a super quick refresher course,

**_omólógo _****means counterpart, and Gia comes from ****_giagiá _****which means grandmother. I hope you enjoyed this chapter. Feel free to let me know via review *****_hint hint, nudge nudge*_****)**


	4. Chapter 4

**(A/N: If you've been paying attention, you'd see that I updated Slave of Your Own and Yesterdays before I worked on this. Priorities. Nope. Just kidding. I wanted to make you wait. :P I hope it was worth it. 7 freaking pages and 2871 words. I hope you're happy. I pulled from one of my favorite little theories. Feel free to guess what it was. It's a bit sad, but that's okay. Don't forget to review!)**

Sherlock didn't even glance up from the papers he had when the door swung open with a thud. Footsteps grew louder until a shadow fell over Sherlock's lap. He turned the page, studying the pictures included. They remained like that, in silence, for a few seconds.

"Am I going to have to wait for you to acknowledge me or will you listen when I talk this time?" the smooth voiced sighed before the creaking of furniture indicated that he sat down. Sherlock still didn't look.

"Piss off, Mycroft. I have no desire to receive a lecture today," he muttered, flipping between two photographs and leaning in to squint at something in the image. Without another word, Sherlock stood and strode to his room, bathrobe flying behind him. Mycroft made to follow, but was stopped when the door slammed shut in front of him.

"Sherlock," he said calmly, leaning towards the door. "You need to find a companion." The door opened and Sherlock strode past Mycroft, now dressed in his usual attire: a fitting, black suit with the jacket open showing a deep red shirt. "You cannot continue on this path to self-destruction, little brother." Sherlock, with a flourish, donned his long coat and quickly pulled his blue scarf on. "Sherlock!" Mycroft grabbed his arm.

Sherlock turned to glare at his brother, pale eyes piercing. "I have no need of a _friend_," he spat. "I am fine as I am. I am clean and there is the Work." Sherlock wrenched his arm from Mycroft's grasp. "I do not need your mollycoddling, _brother_," he hissed, opening the front door. "Now if you would be so kind as to leave. I have some business to attend to elsewhere and I'm sure you have a diet to deviate from." Mycroft gave Sherlock a disappointed look before walking out and stepping into the black car waiting for him on the street.

Sherlock shook his head and walked the opposite direction his brother went. As he walked, Sherlock pulled out a letter from his breast pocket. Unfolding it, the front of the envelope was stamped with big, red letters, "EVICTED." Sighing and shaking his head, Sherlock turned left off of Aybrook Street and onto Moxon. He walked for a bit before continuing through Paddington Street Gardens.

After ignoring the walkway entirely in favor of walking as the crow flies, Sherlock turned left onto Paddington. He walked for a while more, tuning out the rest of the world and sifting through his thoughts on a case. _It all depends on the alibi of the cousin. If he was anywhere in the Chiswick area during the estimated time of murder, then the cousin is guilty. Lestrade was an idiot to even consider the boyfriend a suspect. Anyone with half a brain could see that he was cheating on her with another woman at the time of the murder._

Then he turned right onto Baker Street and his thoughts began to wander to Mycroft's most recent lecture. _Why would I even need a companion? _Sherlock thought venomously. _Mycroft was just being intrusive and controlling like usual, the fat git. I'm fine as I am. Alone…_ When he finally reached his destination, Sherlock looked up at the multi-story building.

"Oh, I'm sure this will do nicely," he said with a small smile as he hopped up the steps and knocked rapidly on the door. After a minute or two, a small elderly woman clad in plenty of purple and pink opened the door.

"Sherlock!" She smiled wide, pulling him into a hug. Normally Sherlock would avoid such contact, but this woman seemed immune to his short temper and sharp tongue and they grew close quickly. She pulled back and lightly batted Sherlock on his arm. "I haven't seen you in forever. You should visit more, young man."

"You won't have to worry about me visiting, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock said. "I'm here about the ad you put in the paper." Mrs. Hudson's smile grew wider.

"You're here about the flat? Oh then," she stepped to the side and waved welcomingly, "come in. Come in." They moved through a small hallway, past a staircase and a door labeled "221 C," and went into a cozy flat. Mrs. Hudson motioned for Sherlock to sit on the lumpy, grandmotherly couch before bustling about in the kitchen adjacent. She came back with some tea, a tray of biscuits, and a ring with two keys on it.

Sherlock ignored the tea and biscuits. "In the ad you said you had two flats to offer, 221 B and C. I'd like to have a look at both." Mrs. Hudson chuckled fondly.

"Right down to business are we? Fine, but when we're finished we will sit down and you _will_ have some tea," Mrs. Hudson scolded with a smile. Sherlock gave a small smile back. He enjoyed Mrs. Hudson's company. Normally it would be nigh on impossible to hold the detective's attention, but somehow this woman was able to entertain Sherlock with her rambling stories and didn't go running when Sherlock let loose his usual blunt deductions. She was kind and loved the man like a son and Sherlock didn't push her away, so that was something.

"Are you coming?" Mrs. Hudson's voice called from the hall, pulling Sherlock from his thoughts. He quickly made his way to where she stood by the door. Mrs. Hudson unlock it and they descended to the basement. Sherlock took one quick glance around before turning and going back up the stairs. Mrs. Hudson followed with a small, "Oh dear."

Sherlock dashed up the staircase to the second floor, impatiently hopping from foot to foot as Mrs. Hudson ambled up herself and unlocked the door marked "221 B." With a twirl of his coat, Sherlock began to investigate each room and corner of the flat and returned to where Mrs. Hudson was waiting, anxiously twisting her hands.

"It's perfect. I'll take it," Sherlock said, surveying the room once more before giving Mrs. Hudson a tightlipped smile. Mrs. Hudson genuinely smiled back.

"Come downstairs then, luv, and we can talk price." Mrs. Hudson placed a hand gently on Sherlock's shoulder, patting twice before pulling away and heading back down the stairs.

* * *

The next day Sherlock went to Saint Bartholomew's Hospital with a spring in his step. The night before, Sherlock had made a deal with Mrs. Hudson, who insisted on giving him a discount for all the help he gave her in Florida that one time, and moved all of his belongings out of his old flat. After arranging everything in 221 B, Sherlock went to his old landlord's residence and dropped the key into his meaty, sweaty palm.

_Good riddance,_ Sherlock thought with a scowl. The old landlord had received so many complaints about Sherlock's habits that he had sent an eviction letter, insisting Sherlock moved out of the flat within a week. But because he has history with Mrs. Hudson, and she seems to accept him for who he is, Sherlock feels that he has a better chance of maintaining the lifestyle he so wishes.

But, as Sherlock examined the case notes and the sample under the microscope, his thoughts slipped from the success of the day before to Mycroft's advice. _If Mrs. Hudson is able to withstand my … idiosyncrasies who is to say that I cannot find another who can as well. _Sherlock resolutely refused to acknowledge the term _omólógo _that came to mind. He shook his head. _But how do I initiate a search for such a person? I definitely will have to be discreet. I don't want Mycroft to think that I am actually taking his advice._ Sherlock shuddered at the thought.

He heard the door squeak open. "Molly-" Sherlock began, but stopped abruptly. The footsteps were far too heavy to be Molly. He glanced up. "Oh. Stamford." He nodded a greeting before going back to the microscope. Michael Stamford is one of the teachers at St. Bart's and he absolutely despises his job. Mike, as he prefers to be called, is heavyset and wears small rectangular glasses. Average intelligence, so too dull for Sherlock to bother with on a regular basis. Molly just barely meets the minimum.

"Sherlock," Mike mumbled as he walked in, glancing around. "Have you seen Molly? We're meant to have lunch together." Sherlock glanced up from the microscope and shook his head. Mike sighed. "Ah well… I'll be off then," and he turned to go. And then Sherlock remembered. Stamford's best friend is into real estate, so whenever he can Stamford makes an effort to find possible clients. He is very personable and knows plenty of people. _Maybe he can be of use…_

"Wait Mike," Sherlock called and Mike stopped by the door and looked back. "Do you still have that friend real estate agent?"

Mike nodded, shifting his stance. He really wanted to get lunch. "Yeah. Why?"

Sherlock stepped away from the microscope and gave Mike his full attention. "Well I just moved flats and I'm sure my old flat is already up for sale." Mike gave him an odd look and nodded again.

"Really? You moved?" Sherlock mentally sighed. _He's trying to make small talk. _"Well what's the new flat like?"

Sherlock gave a smile that didn't meet his eyes. "It's great. Just what I was looking for. Except…" he trailed off and glanced away.

"Except?" Mike prompted, curious.

"Except it's a bit more than I can afford on my own," Sherlock admitted embarrassed, even though it was complete bollocks.

"Then why don't you get a flatmate? Someone you could split the rent with?" Mike offered with a smile. Sherlock was barely able to keep from sneering at such an obvious solution. _As if I hadn't thought of that!_ Instead he chose to give a worried smile.

"Oh, c'mon," Sherlock gave a small half-laugh. "Who'd want me as a flatmate?" he asked in all honesty. Mike gave a pleasant smile.

"You know what? I know plenty of people. I'll ask around for you, Sherlock," he offered with a smile.

"Yeah. Thanks Mike," Sherlock grinned back. Mike waved a farewell and left. As soon as the door shut, the smile fell from Sherlock's face. _Well it's a start at least, _he thought as he returned to the casework.

* * *

John had had enough. Months of being alone and in pain and feeling useless and John was finished with it all. He'd served his queen and country and save numerous people, but it still wasn't enough. John's existence was pointless and no one would miss him when he is gone. He doubts anyone would notice.

That morning, when he woke from yet another nightmare covered in sweat and screaming, John had figured today was a good day to do it. So he sat at his laptop, staring at his blog again for an hour or so before leaving it blank and then wrote an email for Harry and set it to send that night. After that was taken care of, John got dressed in a blue and white checkered collared shirt and some comfortable jeans, grabbed his hospital-issued cane, and went out for breakfast. He figured he'd do it when he returned to the flat. Not home. He didn't have a home.

John went to his favorite café and ordered a coffee and cinnamon-sugar muffin. It was hot and sweet and buttery and John enjoyed every cavity-inducing second of it. After breakfast, John walked through London, letting the sound of the hustle and bustle of those with lives to get back to wash over him. John then made his way to Regent's Park, one of his favorite places to go and think.

It was now about lunch, but John wasn't feeling peckish in any way. He didn't really feel anything. John was making his way through Queen Mary's Gardens when he heard his name being called.

"John! Hey! John Watson! Hey…" John turned and found himself face to face with a man he knew. He _knew _him, but John was having issue putting the name to the face. "Mike! Mike Stamford. We went to uni together," Mike supplied.

"Oh, yeah. Mike. Hello," John smiled thinly holding a hand out to shake Mike's. "I'm sorry I didn't recognize you."

"Yeah. I know," Mike chuckled, shaking John's hand and then letting go. "I got fat. Heh. So what about you? Last I heard you were abroad somewhere getting shot at." John flinched, but Mike didn't notice. "What happened?"

John shifted, clutching his cane and staring at the ground. "I got shot."

* * *

They had gotten lunch. Well Mike had gotten lunch. John had only bought some tea. He didn't need to eat. He wasn't hungry. Anyways, Mike had gotten lunch and John had gotten tea and they were sitting on a bench in Regent's Park catching up.

Back in uni, Mike had been a likeable guy. He had a great sense of humor, wasn't afraid to laugh or make jokes, and was generally nice. He had always been a bit stocky, but being on the rugby team helped keep it mostly muscle. Now he was just… large. John didn't want to think about the past, it made him wonder about the future.

John sipped his tea and listened to Mike talk. "Still at Bart's then?" John prompted.

"Teaching now, yeah. Bright young things like we used to be. God I hate them," Mike said with a chuckle and a bite from his sandwich. "What about you, just staying in town while you get yourself sorted?"

"I can't afford London on an army pension," John answered, carefully avoiding answering the question. He then grimaced, moving his tea to his right hand and stretching his left. It still shook.

Mike didn't notice the aversion. "Ah, but you couldn't bear to be anywhere else. That's not the John Watson I know," he teased, nudging John's arm with a smile.

"Yeah well I'm _not _that John Watson," John snapped before trailing off. _Why does everyone assume to know me, to know who I am? _he thought bitterly.

Mike frowned. "Couldn't Harry help?"

John laughed coldly. "Yeah. Like that's gonna happen." _Harry doesn't care for anyone but herself or anything but alcohol. _John refused to share such personal thoughts with someone he hadn't seen in more than three years.

"I don't know. You could get a flat share or something," Mike offered. He really didn't like seeing John like this: disconnected and bitter. The John he remembers was all smiles and jokes and warmth. This John is just cold.

This laugh was just like his first. "C'mon. Who'd want me as a flat mate?" John asked sarcastically. _I'm broken and useless and even if there was someone it's not like I'd get to meet them. _Mike chucked softly beside him. Anger flared up in John. "What?"

"Well you're the second person to say that to me today," he said smiling. John gave him a quizzical look.

"Who was the first?" he asked after a moment. Mike smiled wider.

"C'mon. Follow me." Mike groaned as he strained to stand up and John followed suit, but silently and with the aid of his cane. Mike led the way out of Regent's park and to the nearest Tube station. They boarded the Metropolitan subway toward Aldgate and rode in silence. Well, Mike rode and John stood. When the Tube reached Barbican station, they got off and walked the rest of the way to St. Bart's.

Soon they were in the white halls and headed down towards the labs. They stopped by Mike's office so he could switch from his jacket to his lab-coat. "So they don't think we're some confused patient or an older student sneaking about," Mike explained with a chuckle. John nodded, faking a smile.

Finally they reached the labs. "He should be in here," Mike said with a smile. Mike led the way in, John close behind.

John looked around. "Bit different from my day," John said, cracking a smile. Mike chuckled softly.

"You've no idea," he said simply, smiling.

"Mike," a voice rang out and John looked over to who spoke, "can I borrow your phone? There's no signal on mine."

"And what's wrong with the landline?" Mike asked monotone. John looked at him. He usually is far friendlier.

"I prefer to text," was the short reply. The man was bent over a microscope, but John could tell he was tall, just by the way he was almost doubled over to look into the blasted thing. He wore navy blue dress pants and a crisp white shirt that was stretched far too tightly over his chest. The man's frame was slim, but still muscled, and he had large hands with long fingers and a head full of dark, curly hair.

"Sorry, it's in my coat." Mike didn't sound sorry at all.

John stepped forward, digging into his pocket. "Er, here." The man glanced up when John spoke. John quickly catalogued his face: full lips, long, straight nose that hadn't ever been broken, and the strangest colored eyes. They seemed to swirl between blue and gray and green and silver constantly. John held out the device, "Use mine."

And their eyes met.

**(A/N: OH. MY. GOD. When writing the bit at the beginning when Sherlock's walking, I used Google Maps for continuity. Holy shit. I had no idea you could get this almost 3D experience. I was so blown away. I sat and played with the damn thing for like thirty minutes. T'was amazing. :D**

And if you don't know what **_omólógo _****means yet, you need to pay more attention. … … … Psst. It means counterpart. Try to remember next time.)**


	5. Chapter 5

**(A/N: AGAIN! An onslaught of positive response represented by a wave of favorites and follows and accompanied by a few reviews [that wrong needs to be rectified. MOAR! MOAR! I NEED MOAR REVIEWS! RAWR!] has convinced me to work on this piece instead of ****_Slave of Your Own_**** or ****_Yesterdays_**** or ****_Phantom Adorable and Charming_****. I hope you're happy. Well you should be. My last chapter received 285 views when I uploaded it. This time I received 340-ish views. BOOSH! And 777 views as of 9:21 am today, so, holy as it be, I have updated today. You are welcome. :D Anyways, I hope you enjoy the latest installment of ****_Locked in Each Other's Gaze_****.)**

Sherlock had smiled inwardly when Mike returned maybe an hour and a half later, just enough time for Sherlock to attack a cadaver with a riding crop, unintentionally fluster Molly more by questioning the sudden appearance of lipstick, and then sending her off to fetch some coffee. He'd been expecting results, but definitely not this quickly. _Quick results doesn't mean positive ones,_ Sherlock thought determinedly. He was not going to assume that whomever Stamford had brought with him was who he was looking for. That would be unrealistic.

But here he was already with a potential flatmate.

"Bit different from my day," a voice said conversationally. Sherlock glanced up, watching the ex-military doctor look around the room as he made his way across the room while leaning heavily on his cane. A few seconds pass and Sherlock focusses back on the sample under the microscope having gathered as much information as he could from the man's appearance.

"Mike," Sherlock mumbled as he turned his gaze from the instrument to the paper where he jotted down some notes, "can I borrow your phone? There's no signal on mine." His gaze was back on the microscope.

"What's wrong with the landline?" Mike asked shortly. Sherlock rolled his eyes. Does he have to explain himself for everything?

"I prefer to text."

Sherlock heard a few soft pats before Mike responded, "Sorry. Left it in my jacket." Sherlock rolled his eyes again. _Probably a lie._ He glanced up. _Definitely a lie. _

"Er- here," the man spoke again. Sherlock stood and looked over at him. _He's been standing there all this time, putting weight on that leg? Psychosomatic, obviously. _The man was shorter than Sherlock but also shorter than average, Sherlock expected. He had short, blond hair that was touched with grey in a few choice areas and his ears poked out on either side. His eyes were expressive and a stormy blue, and his mouth was thin and downturned at the minute but laugh-lines indicated the man smiled frequently. _Though not recently,_ Sherlock thought.

The doctor stepped forward and extended his hand that held a phone. _Hands tanned but not above the wrist, _Sherlock automatically noted. "Use mine," he offered. Sherlock, surprised, looked sharply at the unassuming man.

And their eyes met.

Sherlock wasn't sure what he was expecting when he looked into the man's eyes, usually he saw ulterior motives for meeting him and average, or more often below average, intelligence, but he saw none of that. In that one moment when their eyes met, Sherlock experienced something he hadn't for many years: a rush of emotion overwhelmed him.

He had always been mostly separate from such a base characteristic, but in his early adult life, when the accusations and reactions and abuse had been at their peak, Sherlock found a way to lock away those sharp pains of hurt, the only emotion he seemed capable of truly experiencing aside from annoyance. But in that one moment something else came forth, something kinder and warmer, and Sherlock had no idea what it was for he had never _felt_ anything like it before.

But then the moment passed, as did the feeling rising up inside him, broken by Mike's loud introduction. "This is an old friend of mine, John Watson." Sherlock deftly took the phone from Dr. John Watson's hands and turned away, striding back to the microscope.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?" he asked, partially focusing on the text he was sending Lestrade, partially focusing on gleaning more information of this John Watson from his phone (_Inscription, scratches, make and model…)_, and partially focusing on how this John Watson had followed his movements with his blue, intelligent eyes.

"I-I'm sorry?" John managed after a moment. Sherlock walked back and returned the phone.

"Which one was it?" Sherlock repeated slower. How he despised repetition. "Afghanistan or Iraq?"

John gave him a cautious look. _Not disgust or anger, just confusion… good._ "Afghanistan. Sorry, how did you-" The door opened once more, Molly returning with the awaited coffee.

"Ah, Molly, coffee, thank you," Sherlock interrupted John and retrieved the mug from Molly's hands. He took a sip and grimaced (_Too much sugar_) before turning back to Molly and noticing the distinct absence of coloring on her lips. "What happened to the lipstick?" he asked, sincerely curious. Sometimes he would indulge the loyal mortician with attention.

"It wasn't working for me," Molly mumbled, glancing at the floor in favor of Sherlock's piercing gaze.

"Really?" Sherlock turned and headed back to his papers. He was almost finished. "I thought it was a big improvement. Your mouth is too small now," he complemented, fluttering his fingers towards his own lips for emphasis. Looking back, Sherlock saw a look that was a mix between shock and disappointment flash across John's expressive face. _Was that not right?_ Sherlock wondered, worry rising up before he quickly pushed it down again. _What is with the sudden surge of emotions?_ Sherlock frowned, turning back to his notes.

"Okay," Molly whispered, a bit dejected, before leaving the room once more.

"How do you feel about the violin," Sherlock asked, breaking the silence. Based upon what he'd seen so far, this Dr. John Watson may work well as a flatmate.

John was taken aback at the non sequitur, shifting from foot to foot before tilting his head just to the side and asking, "I'm sorry, what?"

"I play the violin when I'm thinking and sometimes I don't talk for days on end…" Sherlock tilted his head away from the eyepiece and held John's gaze. "Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other." He gave a tight smile that most certainly didn't reach his eyes and began gathering his things to leave.

John turned to Mike, confusion now mixed with irritation and intrigue. "You told him about me?" he asked, accusatory.

Mike smiled. This was turning out much better than he expected. Normally a person would have either punched Sherlock or left angry or hurt. "Not a word," he grinned.

John turned back to Sherlock, pulling his shoulders back and tilting his head up. _Falling into command mode, _Sherlock thought approvingly. _Must have been in a position of authority then._ "Then who says anything about flatmates?" he asked, standing his ground.

"I did," Sherlock flashed another fake smile as he swung his coat around and pulled it on. "Told Mike this morning that I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for," Sherlock paraphrased. He didn't want John's pity. "Now here he is just after lunch, with an old friend clearly just home from military service in Afghanistan." Sherlock donned his scarf before turning and giving John a condescending smirk. "Wasn't a difficult leap."

"How did you know about Afghanistan?" John asked again, turning to face Sherlock as he moved towards the door. _Still not running, seems curious about how I achieved my conclusions, very promising,_ Sherlock thought, smirk firmly in place.

"Got my eyes on a nice little place in central London, we ought to be able to afford it. We'll meet there tomorrow evening seven o'clock," Sherlock said, ignoring the man's inquiry. He turned, opening the door. "Sorry, got to dash, I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary."

"Is that it?" The question made Sherlock pause. He stepped back into the room and faced the army doctor square.

"Is that what?" he prompted.

"We've only just met and now we're going to look at a flat?" John asked, shifting.

"Problem?" Sherlock prompted again.

"We don't know a thing about each other. I don't know where we're meeting, I don't even know your name," John listed each 'problem' directly with a no-nonsense voice. There it was. The chance to show off and see if John will run away from the 'freak' like everyone else.

Sherlock looked John up and down one last time. "I know you're an Army doctor, and you've been invalided home from Afghanistan. You've got a brother worried about you, but you won't go to him for help, because you don't approve of him." Sherlock tilted his head. "Possibly because he's an alcoholic, more likely because he recently walked out on his wife." John shifted again, but said nothing. "And I know your therapist thinks your limp's psychosomatic," Sherlock looked down at the man's right leg and cane, quirking an eyebrow. "Quite correctly, I'm afraid. That's enough to be going on with, don't you think?" Sherlock walked through the open door, but swung back in just to add, "The name is Sherlock Holmes, and the address is 221B Baker Street." He winked and turned to Mike, lifting a hand. "Afternoon." And with that he left.

Just as the door was about to close, Sherlock heard Mike chuckle and say, "Yeah, he's always like that."

* * *

John sat on his bed, still dazed from the whirlwind that is Sherlock Holmes. He didn't know what he'd been expecting when Mike led him back to St. Bart's, but it definitely wasn't that. John thought back to how with just a glance this man seemed to know his entire life story. His time in the army and his reason to come back and his leg and Harry and Clara and the drinking and the divorce and John didn't know how the man did it, but he was amazed.

Yes, initially John had been angry. This man, _Sherlock Holmes_, he kept reminding himself, had information that John wasn't privy to giving out. Then the anger faded and was quickly replaced with something akin to awe. _Just how exactly did he know all of that? _John scrubbed at his face and looked at his phone for a minute before snatching it up.

Quickly, he pulled open the "Sent" folder and selected the most recent text.

"_If brother has green ladder, arrest  
brother. SH_"

John just looked at the phone for a minute before leaping to his feet and exclaiming, "What the bloody _hell _does that mean?" He needed to find out more about Sherlock Holmes. John limped his way over to his desk and pulled out his laptop. Turning it on, he pulled up a search engine and was about to type in "Sherlock Holmes" when he paused. John sat back in his chair with a small huff.

He was seriously considering visiting the flat tomorrow. He was willing to wait a day more, to see how the flat share with Sherlock Holmes would turn out. John looked at the open drawer and the gun in held within. With a small smile, he kicked it shut and turned back to the laptop.

First he needed to delete an email.

**(A/N: Now I know that right now I'm mirroring the show very closely, but that's for two reasons. This AU I'm building is ****_not_**** changing their story too much, I'm just tweaking a few details and adding a layer to their relationship [at least that's what I'm going for]. But also, by following the episodes like this, I can add in what I believe is their reactions and inner thoughts on the matter are and that adds depth to the scene as well as allows me to insert that build-up I need for this story.**

Wow. I rambled. If you're still paying attention, please review. Even if you aren't paying attention, feel free to review. :3)


	6. Chapter 6

**(A/N: I don't know why I continue to be amazed by the responses I get. I guess it's because I don't think my writing is ****_that _****good. But apparently it's at least adequate. :) And even if it sucked, I would keep writing 'cause I enjoy it. And that's all that matters. :3 Well I hope you enjoy this chapter. And I kind of lied at the end of the last chapter. I had a serious surge of inspiration and developed the plot further revealing that I might be changing a bit more than originally anticipated, but I'm sure it'll be fine.**

Except for in this chapter. This is a filler, very much so…)

John woke the next morning tired and a bit shaky from a night of tossing and turning but excited nonetheless. It was illogical. He'd only met the man once and had only spoken to him for maybe five minutes. _Or rather, was spoken to,_ John thought with a small smirk. _I barely got a word in edgewise._ John got to his feet, stretching and groaning before grabbing his cane and heading towards the bathroom to get ready for the day.

After a quick shower and shave, John dressed in his favorite outfit: comfortable jeans, a white tee covered with a deep navy blue button-up, and an oatmeal colored, knit jumper. He donned his walking shoes and black jacket before heading out, cane in hand.

John stepped out and paused to just _feel_ the cool London air. He took a deep breath and let it out with a smile. Today was going to be a good day, he could tell. John turned and began walking down the street. He was going to stay out of that drab flat for as long as he could, or at least until seven that evening. As John walked, he let his thoughts wander.

Soon he found himself passing by a wonderful smelling bakery and stopped in for a bite. After breakfast and a coffee to go, John made his way to the nearest park. Once he found an empty bench, John sat down sipped his coffee and simply watched the world. He began just thinking about his surroundings, the trees and people and ducks in the pond across the way, but soon his mind was drawn back to the enigmatic Sherlock Holmes.

The night before, after deleting the email, John had spent an hour or so looking the bloke up online. He found all sorts of things: a page called _The Science of Deduction_, web articles about a tall man whom the police go to for help, and even a few conspiracy sites that claim Sherlock Holmes's abilities are the result of deals with the devil and witchcraft. John knew that the last one was utter bollocks, but it still shocked how few people had actually _heard _of Sherlock Holmes. _For someone who likes to showoff, Sherlock Holmes sure is a private man_, John thought with a small chuckle.

Then he stopped. He hadn't laughed or chuckled or even properly snickered since leaving Afghanistan. His buddy, Bill Murray, had told him a horrible joke about a preacher, a priest, a rabbi, and bears. Even now, actively thinking about the punch line, all John could do was crack a small, sad smile. So how could a man he'd only met once the day before make him feel so light inside? John shook his head.

He didn't need to dwell. He just needed to get through the day. With a small groan, John lurched to his feet, his knee aching, and made his way down the path, tossing his now empty cup into a bin.

* * *

Sherlock sat in the back of the cap and glanced at his watch. Lestrade had held him too long, asking about the blasted brother and the green ladder and "How did you know all that just from some green flecks on bits of gravel?" Lestrade was the most competent man of the police force, that was why Sherlock sought him out five years ago, but there were times he was so thick Sherlock just wanted to scream to the heavens.

He glanced at his watch again. It was almost seven. Leaning forward, Sherlock rapped on the glass. "Hurry up, will you? I've got somewhere to be," he insisted.

The cabbie grumbled something of a confirmation and obliged. About two minutes later, they pulled up to a stop by 221B Baker Street. Sherlock hopped out, handing the man the calculated fee, and turned to see Doctor John Watson limping towards him, a small smile on his face.

He held out a hand. "Afternoon Mr. Holmes," he said.

"Sherlock, please," Sherlock gave a reassuring smile, or what he figured what was reassuring, before gesturing towards the door. The shorter man looked up at the building and then around them. Sherlock caught his gaze not only skimming over the businesses but also the building tops and windows. _Looking for snipers,_ Sherlock's brain supplied.

"Well this is a prime spot." John looked the building up and down again before turning to Sherlock. "Must be expensive," he said cautiously. He could only afford so much as it were.

Sherlock gave another flat smile. "Mrs. Hudson, the landlady, is giving me a special deal. She owes me a favor." They walked up the steps and Sherlock knocked rapidly twice before continuing, "A few years back, her husband got himself sentenced to death in Florida. I was able to help out."

"You stopped her husband from being executed?" John asked in disbelief. Sherlock glanced down at the awe-struck man and gave a hint of a real smile.

"Oh, no," Sherlock said and John grew confused. "I ensured it," he clarified just as the door opened. Mrs. Hudson held her arms out and Sherlock complied. The woman hadn't seen him since he left early the morning before and he felt she deserved the kindness.

"Sherlock," she smiled into his shoulder. He drew back, breaking contact swiftly, and gestured towards the doctor.

"Mrs. Hudson, Dr. John Watson," Sherlock introduced with a flat smile, stepping away and giving them space to greet each other. Soon they were inside and Sherlock hopped up the stairs, excitement humming in his veins. He reached the door to the flat and waited for John to make his way up to the landing. _I really need to fix that limp of his_, Sherlock thought as John nodded a silent thanks.

He opened the door and quickly turned to watch the army doctor's reaction to the flat while pulling off his gloves. The doctor gazed about appraisingly before walking towards the armchairs in front of the fireplace.

"Well, this could be very nice," John said, looking into the cluttered kitchen. "Very nice indeed."

"Yes. Yes, I think so," Sherlock looked between the foyer and the kitchen himself. "My thoughts precisely. So I went straight ahead and moved in-"

"As soon as we get some of this rubbish-" John said at the same time and stopped. "Oh…" Sherlock looked over to the doctor, who had red creeping up his neck and cheeks. "So this is all…" Sherlock's gaze fell to the ground and he moved forward.

"Well, obviously I can," Sherlock cleared his throat, shuffling some papers into neater piles and grabbing a few others and securing them under a knife on the mantle, "straighten things up a bit." _Why am I bothering?_ Sherlock thought, brow furrowing._ Why does it bother me that he cares?_

"That's a skull," John said cautiously, his cane pointing to the mantle. (_Obvious, John. But curiosity and not disgust. Good._) Sherlock glanced at his oldest companion. _Ugh, sentiment._

"Friend of mine," Sherlock dismissed. He had no time for such trivial things. "Well I _say_ friend…"

"What do you think, then, Dr. Watson?" Mrs. Hudson asked from the doorway where she had been silently watching them converse. Sherlock walked over to her, pulling off his coat and scarf and tossing them on the couch. "There's another bedroom upstairs if you'd be needing two bedrooms," she continued. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Of course we'll be needing two," John sounded confused again and Sherlock smiled to himself.

"Oh, don't worry, there's all sorts 'round here," Mrs. Hudson continued, ignoring John's protest. "Mrs. Turner next door's got," her voice dropped to a stage whisper, "married ones." John glanced over to Sherlock, the question clear in his eyes; '_Are you…?'_

One small scolding from Mrs. Hudson later, John was sitting in the large, dusty armchair that Sherlock had never used and always wondered why he kept it with him every time he moved. John paused, considering something, before carefully saying, "I looked you up on the Internet last night."

Sherlock turned (_Too fast, don't seem desperate_) and waited a beat before prompting, "Anything interesting?"

"I found your website, the Science of Deduction."

Sherlock tried to contain his excitement; he was strangely proud of that site. "What did you think?" John gave him a reproachful look. _Not the response I want_, Sherlock thought as his smile disappeared.

"You said you could identify a software designer by his tie and an airline pilot by his … left thumb?" John said, skeptical.

"Yes. And I could read your military career in your face and your leg and your brother's drinking habits on your mobile phone," Sherlock shot back, expecting the usual disdain.

John only calmly looked at the man and asked, "How?" Sherlock smirked before turning towards the window.

"What about these suicides, then Sherlock?" Mrs. Hudson asked, coming in from the kitchen, newspaper in hand. "I thought that'd be right up your street. Three exactly the same." She handed the paper to John.

"Four," Sherlock corrected, gazing out the window to the street below where a police car had just pulled up. _Lestrade_. "There's been a fourth, and there's something different this time."

* * *

So far, John would have to say that the flat exceeded expectations and he was more curious than irritated with Sherlock Holmes. Upon approaching the flat, he'd been worried about what sort of character Sherlock was, but when he saw the way Sherlock hugged Mrs. Hudson, his landlady, John felt this inexplicable warmth blossoming.

Then they went into the actual flat. It was messy, but in an ordered way. 'Organized chaos' had jumped to mind, a perfect oxymoron that could easily describe both the flat and Sherlock Holmes. Then he did something unexpected. John had accidentally called Sherlock's possessions rubbish and, instead of growing agitated and lashing out like he expected, Sherlock had moved to straighten a bit.

John's leg had begun to bother him halfway through the inspection of the flat, so he had lowered himself into an armchair and found it surprisingly comfortable. Then Sherlock had mentioned his unparalleled and still unexplained knowledge of John's personal life and Mrs. Hudson had begun talking about the  
serial murders or suicides that had been dominating the news recently. _Why would Sherlock have anything to do with…_ And then a worn looking man with a gruff London accent jogged up the stairs and Sherlock's full attention was on him.

"Where?" he asked before the man was able to even draw a breath. John furrowed his brow and pursed his lips. He knew the man's face from somewhere.

"Brixton, Lauriston Gardens," the man replied, not missing a beat.

"What's new about this one?" Sherlock said, appearing disinterested, but John could read something in the way he 'nonchalantly' tucked his hands into his pockets that said otherwise. "You wouldn't have come to get me if there wasn't something different."

"You know how they never leave notes? This one did." The man dug his hands into his pockets anxiously. "Will you come?"

Sherlock paused, glancing towards John, before asking, "Who's on forensics?"

The man grimaced as he answered, "Anderson."

"Anderson won't work with me," Sherlock hissed. John glanced between the two. _Forensics? Anderson? What's going on?_

"Well, he won't be your assistant," the man said.

"I _need _an assistant," Sherlock responded instantly.

"Will you come?" the man asked again.

"Not in a police car. I'll be right behind," Sherlock affirmed, sounding as if it were a burden to assist the man.

"Thank you," was the man's farewell.

John looked at Sherlock, then the man who left, then Mrs. Hudson, and then Sherlock again. He was thoroughly confused. Sherlock remained stoic by the window, an excited smile just starting to form, until the door shut loudly below them. In a second, the aloof façade he'd been bearing dropped, and Sherlock literally leapt with joy.

"Brilliant! Yes!" he cried. "Four serial suicides and now a note." He spun in place, excitedly. "Oh, it's Christmas!" Sherlock quickly donned his coat as he called out, "Mrs. Hudson, I'll be late. Might need some food."

"I'm your landlady, dear, not your housekeeper," she said as he passed.

"Something cold will do. John," he flinched and turned at his name, "have a cup of tea, make yourself at home. Don't wait up." And with that he was gone.

Barely five minutes, five _bloody_ minutes, and Sherlock Holmes was gone. John glared at the cane in his hand. Maybe if he didn't need it… _No. He barely knows me,_ John thought, heart sinking. _Probably only asked me over out of pity._

"Look at him, dashing about," Mrs. Hudson said to John. "My husband was just the same," _Don't go there… don't mention it…_ John felt the anger rising, "but you're more the sitting down type I can tell." _Leave it there…_ Resentment was building too. "I'll make you that cuppa, you rest your leg."

"DAMN my leg!" John exploded, causing Mrs. Hudson to flinch. He quickly reigned his anger once more. "Sorry, I am so sorry. It's just sometimes this bloody thing…" John wacked his foot lightly with his cane, trying not to sound or look like the dying, bitter man he was inside.

"I understand, dear," Mrs. Hudson sympathized. _Sure you do, _John thought sarcastically. _Because you know exactly like to be useless and unable to do anything!_ "I've got a hip."

John inhaled and exhaled slowly before saying, as light as he can, "Cup of tea would be lovely, thank you," as he grabbed the newspaper from under his arm.

"Just this once, dear," Mrs. Hudson said matronly from the kitchen. "I'm not your housekeeper."

"A couple of biscuits too, if you've got them," John added absentmindedly, not quite hearing the responding, 'Not your housekeeper' from behind him. He leaned forward and folded the paper, looking at the headliner with a mix of surprise and excitement. The man, the one who'd just been here and fetched Sherlock, he was the head detective on the serial murders. _DI Lestrade, in charge of investigation_, John read. **_What _**_do you do, Sherlock?_

* * *

Sherlock was all the way down the stairs and almost out the door when he heard it: "DAMN my leg!" He stopped. _John_. Oh, in all the excitement he'd forgotten the mystery of the man with the psychosomatic limp who causes these reactions. Sherlock had forgotten his mini-mission to rid the doctor of his faux disability.

Within seconds, Sherlock had leapt his way back up the stairs and causally leaned against the doorframe, tugging his gloves on, watching John process Lestrade's face on the cover. "You're a doctor," Sherlock said, causing John to jump and turn, folding the paper almost guiltily. "In fact, you're an army doctor."

After a moment, John lurched to his feet, aided by that _blasted _cane, saying, "Yes," before clearing his throat.

"Any good," Sherlock asked.

John didn't blink. "Very good." It wasn't said out of vanity; it was just a cold, hard fact.

"Seen a lot of injuries, then?" Sherlock continued his inquiry. He turned his gaze to the doctor. "Violent deaths?"

"Yes," he replied softly, his eyes trained on Sherlock.

Sherlock stepped closer. "Bit of trouble too, I bet?"

"Of course, yes. Enough for a lifetime," John blinked slowly. "Far too much." Sherlock held his gaze, excitement starting to build.

"Want to see some more?"

"Oh God, yes," was John's instant reply. Without a word, Sherlock turned and headed back out the door, a smile growing on his face as he trotted down the steps. John followed directly behind, apologizing to Mrs. Hudson about the change in plans.

"Both of you?" she asked, a bit dismayed. They'd only just gotten there.

Sherlock turned, his smile growing. "Impossible suicides, four of them." He approached Mrs. Hudson and lightly grabbed her shoulders. "There's no point sitting at home when there's finally something fun going on!" Sherlock gave Mrs. Hudson a light kiss on the cheek before pulling away.

"Look at you all happy. It's not decent," Mrs. Hudson tried to scold with a light tap on Sherlock's arm, but it was ruined by the smile she bore. John watched on with his own smile.

Sherlock made his way back to the front door. "Who cares about decent? The game, Mrs. Hudson, is on!" And they were on their way.

**(A/N: Filler McFilly-Fill. Still, feel free to review. More to come soon. :D)**


	7. Chapter 7

**(A/N: After a filler of EPIC proportions, you are finally getting something meaty (although apparently it wasn't really a filler, according to my FANTASTIC AND ****_HONESTLY PERFECT_**** REVIEWERS! I LOVE YOU ALL!). :D First the cab-ride and then the crime scene arrival ALL IN ONE CHAPTER! AND THIS, AND MORE, CAN BE YOURS IF YOU JUST ****_FREAKING READ ALREADY!_**** And review. That's always nice too. :3**

Oh, and I am currently working on a monster of a one-shot titled "When a Good Man Goes to War." I know, sounds Doctor-y but it's a Sherlock one-shot. Trust me. Here's a little tidbit. Let me know what you think:

So hot tea was just what he needed. John was awakened by the pain. Not John Watson, ever loyal friend of Sherlock, or Doctor Watson, the wonderful practitioner with the steady hands and kind words, but Caption John Hamish Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, the loyal killer with the steady hands and hard eyes.**  
There you go. Let me know. In the review box below. [And yeah. That just happened. :D])**

They had been riding in silence for a while now. Sherlock estimated that they were about halfway to the crime scene, but still a good twenty to thirty minutes out based upon traffic flow and the route the cab was taking them. Sherlock had kept his gaze pointedly on his phone, but he could see John's gaze wander from him to his phone to their surroundings to him again. Sherlock sighed.

"Okay, you've got questions?" It was more of a statement.

The spell of silence was broken. "Yeah, where are we going?" John asked immediately.

"Crime scene." (_Obvious, John, really._)"Next."

"Who are you?" John's focus was on his hands and the cane that rested between his knees. "What do you do?"

"What do you think?" Sherlock didn't miss a beat. (_Think, John. I know you can._)

"I'd say private detective," John began. (_Good. Almost…_) Sherlock glanced out the window, hiding a smile.

"But," Sherlock prompted knowing John was a bit more observant then that.

"But the police don't go to private detectives," John finished instantly, and Sherlock's small smile grew, if only for a moment.

"I'm a consulting detective, only one in the world," Sherlock clarified proudly. "I invented the job."

"And what does that mean?" John asked, his eyes still on the Sherlock.

"It means when the police are out of their depth, which is always, they consult me," Sherlock explained, his own gaze on their surroundings.

"The police don't consult amateurs," John chuckled in disbelief. The cab fell silent for a moment and Sherlock turned his burning gaze to the doctor almost hungrily before tilting his head and smirking. _Challenge accepted._

"When I met you for the first time yesterday," Sherlock began, "I said Afghanistan or Iraq, you looked surprised." (_Not scared or horrified or offended, but surprised and intrigued._)

"Yes, how did you know?" John asked eagerly. He'd been waiting for this answer for the last two days and he didn't think Sherlock was going to deflect this time.

"I didn't know, I saw," Sherlock smirked. "Your haircut, the way you hold yourself, says military. And your conversation as you entered the room said trained at Barts, so army doctor, obvious." Sherlock saw John sigh, tilting his head back. _At least it is now…_ "Your face is tanned, but no tan above the wrists. It means you've been abroad but not sunbathing. Your limp is really bad when you walk, but you don't ask for a chair when you stand like you've forgotten about it, so it's at least partly psychosomatic. That says the original circumstances of the injury were traumatic. Wounded in action, then." Sherlock turned his head and looked out the window. "Wounded in action, suntan: Afghanistan or Iraq."

The cab grew silent again.

Then John said quietly, and a bit brokenly, "You said I had a therapist."

"You've got a psychosomatic limp," Sherlock left no room for pity. "Of course you've got a therapist." Silence for a beat or two. "Then there's your brother." John turned, confusion flashing in his eyes. "Your phone," Sherlock said, looking down at it in John's hand. "It's expensive, e-mail enabled, MP3 player. And you're looking for a flatshare. You wouldn't waste money on this; it's a gift, then." He turned the phone in his hand, allowing the light to catch multiple surfaces. "Scratches – not one, many over time. It's been in the same pocket as keys and coins. The man sitting next to me wouldn't treat a luxury item like this, so it's had a previous owner," Sherlock explained, his gaze dancing from John to outside to the phone and back. John looked at Sherlock, something between confusion and offended plastered on his face. "The next bit is easy. You know it already." Sherlock flipped the phone over.

"The engraving," John said softly. _Harry Watson, From Clara, xxx_ was etched into the back.

"Harry Watson – clearly a family member who's given you his old phone," Sherlock picked up again, John watching with his mouth agape and slight amusement dancing in his eyes. "Not your father; this is a young man's gadget. Could be a cousin, but you're a war hero who can't find a place to live. Unlikely you've got an extended family, certainly not one you're close to, so brother it is." (_War hero? Why say that. There are no heroes…_) "Now Clara… who's Clara? Three kisses says it's a romantic attachment, but the expense of the phone says wife not girlfriend." John's mouth was closed and his eyes were following the phone as Sherlock waved it around.

"She must have given it to him recently. This model's only six months old. Marriage in trouble then – six months on, and already he's giving it away? If she'd left him, he would have kept it. People do, _sentiment_." Sherlock hated that word. "No, he wanted rid of it. He left _her_. He gave the phone to you. That means he wants you to stay in touch. You're looking for cheap accommodation, but you're not going to your brother for help?" John was looking a bit more bothered than shocked at the moment. "That says you've got problems with him. Maybe you liked his wife, maybe you don't like his drinking."

"How can you _possibly_ know about the drinking?" John asked breathily, fiddling with his cane again.

Sherlock gave a flat smile. "Shot in the dark. Good one, though. Power connection, tiny little scuffmarks around the edge of it. Every night he goes to plug it in to charge, but his hands are shaking. You never see those marks on a sober man's phone, never see a drunk's without them." Sherlock handed the device back to the silent doctor. "There you go, you see, you were right." _Too easy, too easy. Must impress, don't reject_, Sherlock's thoughts were spinning a mile a minute.

"I was right?" John said sharply. "Right about what?"

"The police don't consult amateurs," Sherlock said, releasing a breath of air. _Here it comes,_ he braced himself for the inevitable.

"That," John began (_not too harsh, don't get burned_), "was amazing." Sherlock's mind froze for a millisecond and then sped up exponentially. _"That… was amazing,"_ echoed in his mind, dancing behind his eyes, and filling his veins. He turned to John, who was looking out the window grudgingly.

"Do you think so?" Sherlock asked. _Have to check, cannot be a mistake. Must be accurate. _

"Yes, of course." John almost seemed reluctant to admit it. "Extraordinary, it was quite… extraordinary." Sherlock processed this compliment much quicker.

"That's not what people normally say," he said a bit breathlessly.

"What do people normally say?" John instantly countered.

Sherlock turned. "Piss off," he answered with a smile. John chuckled, facing the window almost as if to hide it, but Sherlock saw it and smiled wider.

* * *

John was still in a daze when they arrived at the crime scene. The way that man had taken the smallest of details and unraveled every piece of John's life, leaving him feeling bare and exposed. _Down to Harry's drinking problem…_ John thought solemnly and then smiled. _At least he got __**one**__ thing wrong._ John took so much pleasure in that fact.

Shaking his head, John lurched forward and got out of the cab, slowly making his way behind Sherlock. Staring at the man's back, John thought back to how he'd gone from intrigue to anger to surprise to complete amazement to shock in the span of those few minutes, to how Sherlock seemed pleased at his own inferences and completely taken aback at his honest reaction. John shook his head slowly. It seemed wrong that a man with such an amazing ability would be so openly and frequently ridiculed for it. And the way Sherlock's eyes had lit up when he began rattling off his deductions…

John was pulled back into reality by Sherlock's voice. "Hm?" John asked.

"Did I get anything wrong?" Sherlock reiterated, a sour look on his face.

John smiled. Here was his chance. "Harry and me don't get on, never have. Clara and Harry split up three months ago and they're getting a divorce." John paused, both catching his breath and enjoying the growing pride on Sherlock's face. "And Harry is a drinker."

Sherlock smiled wide, turning to walk facing forward again. "Spot on, then. I didn't expect to be right about everything." John smiled at his feet, before tilting his head up again. _I'm __**really**__ going to enjoy this. _

"Harry is short for Harriet." There it was, out in the air. Sherlock stopped dead in his tracks. John grinned and kept walking.

"Harry's your sister," he whispered, eyes glazed.

John glanced around, his mind half on their surroundings and half on Sherlock's reaction (which definitely exceeded expectations and was completely satisfactory). "What exactly am I supposed to be doing here?" John glanced back behind him where Sherlock was still frozen, lost in thoughts.

"Sister," he hissed before moving forward again. John held up a hand, trying to grab Sherlock's attention.

"No, seriously. What am I doing here?" he asked again.

Sherlock ignored him, snapping his fingers as he muttered, "There's always something." John fought hard not to roll his eyes. Yes, he took deep satisfaction in proving the man wrong in one aspect, but this was getting a tad ridiculous.

They slowed to a stop by the police tape where a, frankly, attractive woman was standing, arms crossed. She had long, curly hair that framed an oval face. Her eyes were a deep brown and she had nice full lips, but the way they curled turned her entire visage unappealing.

"Hello freak," she sneered. John stiffened. Sherlock didn't even flinch.

"I'm here to see Inspector Lestrade," he said blandly. John's hands clenched beside him at hearing the careful monotone.

"Why?" The woman didn't move but to lift an eyebrow.

"I was invited," Sherlock responded. _How often __**is**__ he 'invited'?_ John wondered.

"_Why_?" she asked again.

"I think he wants me to take a look," he said sarcastically. _Does he have to deal with this every time?_ John thought, shifting his weight off his right leg. Sherlock glanced back at John and caught him moving.

The woman tensed before saying, "Well you know what I think, don't you?"

"Always, Sally," Sherlock said with a smirk before leaning forward slightly and sniffing. "I even know you didn't make it home last night," he muttered and brushed past the stunned woman.

"I don't-" she stopped herself and turned to face John for the first time. "Er, who's this?" Sally asked with an echo of the sneer she gave Sherlock minutes ago. John let out a breath through his teeth and let his hand relax.

"Colleague of mine, Doctor Watson," Sherlock supplied, ducking under the yellow tape. "Doctor Watson, Sergeant Sally Donovan." He turned to her with a smirk and said, "Old friend."

Donovan gives Sherlock a look of disbelief. "Colleague? How do _you _get a colleague?" John shuddered at the coldness this Sergeant Donovan was displaying towards Sherlock. _Sure he isn't the most polite, _John thought, _but he wasn't outright rude until you opened your twisted mouth._ Donovan faced John who quickly schooled his expression, smoothing out the agitation and letting it settle in the hand clutching the cane. "Did he follow you home?" she quipped with false concern.

John shifted, tilting his head and looking at Sherlock, completely disregarding Donovan. "Would it be better if I just waited and…" he asked, pointing back towards the road.

"No," Sherlock interrupted, lifting the tape for John and turning to glance back at the crime scene. _Pointedly avoiding my eye,_ John noted. When Donovan made no move to stop him, John limped forward, barely tilting his head down to avoid the tape.

The sergeant pulled out a radio and says sharply, "Freak's here, bringing him in." John didn't send the ugly bitch a second glance as he and Sherlock head towards a building where people were milling about. As they neared the door, a man came to meet them. He was skinny, but not very tall, and wore the disposable suit of the forensics team. His hair was dark, thick, and slicked back, his nose was hooked, and his nostrils were flared as if some horrible stench permanently permeated the air in front of him.

The weasel looking man marched right up to Sherlock and opened his mouth to scold or scorn, but Sherlock jumped in and said, with a grim smirk, "Ah, Anderson. Here we are again." Anderson narrowed his beady eyes.

"It's a crime scene," the man bit out. "I don't want it contaminated. Are we clear on that?"

Sherlock pinned his cutting gaze on the man and inhaled sharply. "Quite clear," he snapped. Sherlock made to move forward, but stopped. "Is your wife away for long?"

Anderson's face twisted. "Oh don't pretend you worked that out," he sneered. "Somebody told you."

Sherlock smirked, glancing around, before saying, "Your deodorant told me that."

That threw Anderson. "My deodorant?"

"It's for men," Sherlock said lightly, with a quick smile. John tilted his head in slight confusion, not quite following Sherlock's deductions himself.

"Well, of course it's for men," Anderson scoffed. "I'm wearing it!" John shook his head knowingly. He may have only known Sherlock a day, but he already knew he wouldn't go for such an easy insult. He was far more intelligent than that.

"So's Sergeant Donovan," Sherlock deadpanned and John had to smother a giggle. _There_ was the punch. Anderson blanched and Sherlock leaned forward and sniffed pointedly. "Ooh, and I think it just vaporized. May I go in?" And without waiting for a response, Sherlock pushed passed the sputtering man.

"Now, look. W-whatever you're trying to imply-" he stuttered, pointing and accusatory finger at Sherlock.

Sherlock stopped and turned. "I'm not implying anything," he interrupted brusquely before continuing his way towards the door. "I'm sure Sally came round for a nice chat and just _happened_ to stay over." Upon reaching the door, he paused and spun on his foot. "And I assume she scrubbed your floors, going by the state of her knees." Sherlock smiled smugly at the look of pure horror on Donovan and Anderson's faces. With a flare of his coat, he turned and went inside.

John hid his smile under a grimace as he moved forward towards the door himself. John studiously kept his eyes on the ground before him as he passed Anderson, but he couldn't help glancing at Donovan's knees as he passed her. John had to swallow another smile. He gave her a quick nod before following Sherlock through the open door.

**(A/N: Another chapter finished. On a roll, I am. New chapter there will be. Post it soon I will. Like Yoda I am speaking. Review you will.)**


	8. Chapter 8

**(A/N: And the roll continues. The real reason for all these chapters is pre-written dialogue and PROCRASTINATION! I should get an award for all the procrastination I do. :D Anyways, I've rambled enough. Enjoy this next chapter. [Psst. Hey. I'm gonna do something new in this chapter. OuO])**

Sherlock stopped to unceremoniously shove his leather ones into his pocket. He'd handled Anderson and Donovan with ease, per usual. _The idiots really did set themselves up by leaving all those clues,_ Sherlock mentally smirked. _If it were any more obvious a-_ His thoughts were cut short by the entrance of one Doctor Watson.

For all his normality and predictability, John really was a mystery. He hadn't scorned Sherlock for his biting deductions and didn't so much rub the mistake in Sherlock's face as present it and enjoy the aftereffects. And when Donovan gave her customary greeting, John had stiffened and grew agitated, as if _he _were the one insulted. Even after Sherlock unleashed his quick wit and sharp tongue, John showed no aversion towards him. _What made him so unperturbed? What made him stay?_ Sherlock hadn't done anything to encourage such reactions; he hadn't been anything but himself.

And yet, here John was, only steps behind the consulting detective.

Sherlock threw a glance back at the doctor before saying swiftly, "You need to wear one of these," and gesturing to one of the blue one piece suits that were identical to the one Anderson wore. Lestrade looked up at the sound of Sherlock's voice and noticed, probably for the first time, John.

"Who's this?" he asked, nodding his head towards the struggling man. John's limp (_psychosomatic, must __**fix**_) was making getting the suit on difficult.

"He's with me," Sherlock said curtly.

"Yeah, but who _is_ he?" Lestrade reiterated. Sherlock fought hard to not roll his eyes.

"I _said_," Sherlock just barely refrained from sneering (how he loathed repetition), "he's with me." John had finally gotten his legs in and was currently working the coverall onto his left arm (_gunshot wound hindering movement_) when he glanced up and noticed Sherlock's inaction.

"Aren't you gonna put one on?" he asked, nodding his head to the table. Sherlock shot John a look that was easily read as, '_What do you think?_' John quickly sent his own look back. '_Oh, right. You're above all that. Silly me._' Sherlock chuckled inwardly, relishing the silent banter, before turning to Lestrade.

"So, where are we?" he asked, quickly pulling on latex gloves.

Lestrade tilted his head slightly and said, "Upstairs."

* * *

Lestrade trotted up the stairs after the long-legged detective, carefully aware of the slow going man that followed. It wasn't the first time in the five years of their acquaintance that Sherlock had done something unexpected, but that usually consisted of body parts or drug experimentation. This was the first time he'd seen Sherlock interact with someone for any reason other than he had to and Lestrade was almost stunned into silence. Almost.

"I can give you two minutes," Lestrade called to Sherlock's back.

The man didn't even slow as he casually said, "May need longer." Lestrade bit back a snarky response. He need Sherlock and if that meant complying even when he was just saying that to be contradictory, then so be it.

He instead chose to say, "Her name's Jennifer Wilson according to her credit cards. We're running them now for contact details. Hasn't been here long. Some kids found her." They reached the top of the stairs and Sherlock wasted no time. As he strode into the room, Sherlock's gaze flickered from the walls to the ceiling to the note on the ground to the body next to it.

Lestrade watched Sherlock as he worked, picking the smallest of details and spinning truth from them. _It's amazing and if I didn't see the git do it on a weekly basis, I would think it a scam,_ Lestrade thought with a frown. Then his thoughts turned to Sherlock's newest… companion. The man seemed small and unimposing, easily forgotten, and that made sense in a twisted way. _Sherlock wouldn't want to be outshine. One show-off is enough for the both of them._ Lestrade glanced at the man who was watching Sherlock with a confused look. _He wouldn't want to associate with anyone unintelligent either. So who is this man?_

"Shut up." Sherlock's voice broke the silence, making Lestrade jump slightly. Lestrade blinked, looked from Sherlock to his companion back to Sherlock, and blinked again.

"I-I didn't say anything," he protested. Sherlock stood and pinned Lestrade with his, probably patented, don't-be-so-obvious look.

"You were thinking," Sherlock said before turning back to face the body. "It's annoying," he muttered as he crouched down and hovered over Jennifer Wilson's body. They waited in silence for about two minutes before Sherlock stood with a small smirk and began pulling off his latex gloves.

Lestrade watched him, hands on his hips, and asked, "Got anything?" Sherlock glanced up, eyes shining, and went back to his phone.

"Not much." Lestrade almost shook his head. Sherlock must think him blind; he obviously had a list of facts he pulled out of the air in those minutes.

"She's German," the nasally voice sounded from the doorway and Lestrade glanced to see Anderson causally leaning on the door-frame. Lestrade grimaced as he glanced from the forensics specialist to the consulting detective. "'Rache'," he read the note scratched into the ground, "German for 'revenge'." Sherlock took a few quick steps, not even glancing up from the phone in his hand. "She _could_ be trying to tell us something-"

"Yes," Sherlock interrupted. "Thank you for your input." And with that, he slammed the door in Anderson's face. Lestrade watched on warily.

"So she's German?" he asked cautiously.

"Of course not," Sherlock muttered, still looking at his phone. "She is from out of town, though, intending to stay only one night-" Sherlock briefly smirked before quickly pocketing the mobile "-before returning home to Cardiff." Lestrade shook his head slightly, sighing heavily. "So far, so obvious," Sherlock breathed, looking down at the body.

"Sorry – obvious?" The man spoke for the first time since they began their ascent of the stairs. Lestrade sent him a quick glance. _Must not've known Sherlock long, then_, he thought.

Lestrade huffed a sigh. "What about the message, though?" he asked, giving Sherlock a hard look. Sherlock ignored the man's inquiries entirely and turned to his companion.

"Doctor Watson," Sherlock's voice made the man's gaze flit from the body to his face, "what do you think?"

Watson's face twisted in confusion. "Of the note?" Lestrade hid a smile when he saw Sherlock's response written across his features.

"Of the body," he clarified shortly. "You're a medical man." That caught Lestrade's attention.

"Wait. No!" He held up a hand, his outburst grabbing Sherlock's attention properly for the first time since they entered the room. "We have a whole team right outside."

"They won't work with me," Sherlock stated.

Lestrade took a threatening step forward. "I'm breaking every rule letting _you_ in here," he insisted, pinning Sherlock with a pointed look.

"Yes," Sherlock said softly. "Because you need me." He held Lestrade's gaze while Doctor Watson next to him looked between the two of them. After a minute or two of a tense silence, Lestrade dropped his eyes and admitted defeat.

"Yes, I do," he muttered. "God help me…" Lestrade can feel Sherlock's burning gaze on him for another minute before it finally moved.

"Doctor Watson," Sherlock said, almost gently. _Gently? Who is this Doctor Watson? _Lestrade blinked, keeping his eyes off the man in question.

The man quickly looked from Sherlock to the body then to Lestrade. Catching on, Lestrade threw his hands up in frustration and said tetchily, "Oh, do as he says. Help yourself." The man nods and shifts from foot to foot, as if anxious to move and draw attention to the limp and the cane. Lestrade threw this short doctor one last glance before pulling open the door and calling to Anderson, "Anderson, keep everyone out for a couple of minutes." He loudly closed the door behind him, but lingered for a minute, listening to the shuffling and soft voices coming from the other side of the door. Doctor Watson seemed to have an effect on the consulting detective, but it was yet to be seen as a good or bad thing.

* * *

Sherlock watched John as he limped to the far side of Jennifer Wilson before squatting on her left. John grunted as he slowly lowered himself onto one knee, leaning heavily on his cane. Sherlock had been painfully aware of his slow goings, both going up the stairs earlier and walking in general. It irritated Sherlock to no end and already he has formulated a plan to help rid the doctor of the psychosomatic limp for good.

As the silence continued, Sherlock glanced up from the body to find John's eyes trained on him. _Dark, stormy blue that changes with his emotions,_ Sherlock noted automatically. Right now they were blue and not grey, which would mean he was upset, but were lighter than Sherlock would assume to be normal, which could mean any range of things. _Not enough data, must observe more before conclusive findings._ Sherlock shook his head lightly; these thoughts were new and unprecedented. _Since when have I needed to know what emotions are portrayed by specific eye color? Ridiculous. _

"Well?" Sherlock decided it was high time to get the ball rolling, as they say.

John had yet to examine the body itself, instead choosing to carefully watch Sherlock. "What am I doing here?" he asked softly.

"Helping me make a point," Sherlock responded, dropping decibels automatically to match John's. John's face puckered in response, his brow furrowing and lips pursing.

After glancing at the door, John threw back, "I'm supposed to be helping you pay the _rent._" Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Yeah, well, this is more fun," he countered causing John's face to smoothen, his lips pulling into a slight frown of disapproval and making Sherlock's stomach twist with something unidentifiable (_Too many variables must await more data_).

"Fun?" Agitation made John's voice rise back to normal and harden. "There's a woman lying dead," he said, indicating the body at their feet with a tilt of his head. Sherlock's eyes rolled again.

"Perfectly sound analysis, but I _was_ hoping you'd go deeper," he muttered with a smirk just as Lestrade returned from hovering just outside in the hallway. Sherlock had more than noticed the DI's confused glances towards John all evening. Initially they'd been justified curious 'who the hell is this' looks, but as the night had progressed the stares had become something more like 'who the hell _are_ you', as if John was somehow affecting the entire situation. And so the Detective Inspector Lestrade had become more of a nuisance than usual.

Sherlock turned his thoughts back to what John was doing before him. The man had gradually lowered to both knees and turned his own focus onto the body, gently clasping her wrist before leaning forward to casually sniff then straighten again and check the skin. John paused, arranging his thoughts before looking back at Sherlock, his eyes brighter than before but swimming with confusion. '_What am I doing here?'_ The earlier question floated back through Sherlock's consciousness.

"Yeah," John began, a bit uncertainly. "Asphyxiation, probably. Passed out, choked on her own vomit," he recited, as if checking off a list. "Can't smell any alcohol on her. It could have been a seizure; possibly drugs." John trailed off, glancing at Lestrade before looking back at Sherlock.

"You know what it is. You've read the papers," Sherlock insisted instantly. He knew John knew; he'd seen John reading the paper and connecting the DI's face to the picture by the article. John wasn't stupid; he just didn't want to assume.

"What, she's one of the suicides?" John asked, sending a look towards Lestrade. "The fourth…" John's eyes glazed, obviously recalling what Sherlock had said earlier in 221B.

Lestrade glanced at John again before looking at the consulting detective. "Sherlock – two minutes, I said. I need anything you got."

Sherlock quickly rises to his full height, pointedly ignoring the doctor as he struggles to right himself, and spins on his foot to face Lestrade. "Victim is in her late thirties," he rattled off, per usual. "Professional person, going by her clothes; I'm guessing something in the media, going by the frankly _alarming_ shade of pink," Sherlock smirked. "Travelled from Cardiff today, intending to stay in London for one night. It's obvious from the size of her suitcase."

"Suitcase?" Lestrade asked, interrupting. John made a quick glance about the room, but frowns upon not seeing any suitcase.

"Yes, suitcase," Sherlock insisted, sneering slightly. "She's been married at least ten years, but not happily. She's had a string of lovers but none of them knew she was married," he said with a small sigh. This really was quite easy to see. Sherlock was continuously surprised by how little people really _saw_.

"Oh, for God's sake," Lestrade cried. There it was: the denial. "If you're just making this up-"

"Her wedding ring," Sherlock interrupted, pointing down to the woman's left hand. "Ten years old at least. The rest of her jewelry has been regularly cleaned, but not her wedding ring. State of her marriage right there." Leaning over, Sherlock deftly removed the ring from her finger, showing the two men the obvious difference before just as quickly putting it back on. "The inside of the ring is shinier than the outside – that means it's regularly removed. The only polishing it gets is when she works it off her finger. It's not for work; look at her nails. She doesn't work with her hands, so what or rather who does she remove her rings for? Clearly not one lover; she'd never sustain the fiction of being single over that amount of time, so more likely a string of them. Simple," Sherlock finished with a huff.

Silence. Then:

"That's brilliant." Sherlock swiftly looked up, catching a look of pure admiration on John's face before it fell and he said, "Sorry."

Lestrade quickly shook off the look of surprise before prompting, "Cardiff?"

"It's obvious, isn't it?" Sherlock responded, looking hard at the DI.

"It's not obvious to me," John said cautiously and Sherlock's gaze flicked between the two of them in disbelief.

"Dear God. What is it like in your funny little brains?" Sherlock chuckled weakly. "It must be so _boring_." After another few seconds of bewildered silence, Sherlock turned back to the body and began pointing out the details that made the conclusion so obvious. "Her coat: it's slightly damp. She's been in heavy rain in the last few hours. No rain anywhere in London in that time." Sherlock shifted position and faced the two men, finger still trained on Jennifer Wilson. "Under her coat collar is damp, too. She's turned it up against the wind," he said, making a slight motion to imitate the action. "She's got an umbrella in her left-hand pocket but it's dry and unused: not just wind, strong wind – too strong to use her umbrella." Sherlock paused a moment, thrusting his hands back into his pockets.

"We know from her suitcase that she was intending to stay overnight, so she must have come a decent distance but she can't have travelled more than two or three hours because her coat still hasn't dried. So, where has there been heavy rain and strong wind within the radius of that travel time?" Cocking his head slightly and smirking, Sherlock pulled out his phone, displaying a web page that provided the final facts he needed. "Cardiff."

John was captivated, a slack-jawed smile on his face as he said enthusiastically, "That's fantastic!" There it was again, that unadulterated awe that broke every mold of human behavior Sherlock had catalogued.

Sherlock swiftly strode to John, leaning forward slightly as he murmured, "D'you know you do that aloud?" He watched carefully as John's eyes flickered all over his face, down to the floor, and then met Sherlock's eyes once more.

"Sorry. I'll shut up," he muttered just as softly.

Sherlock paused, eyes devouring John's every feature, before responding, "No. It's … fine." He was unaccustomed to any sort of praise, so while this was an unwarranted surprise, it was a welcomed one.

"Why d'you keep saying suitcase?" Lestrade called out, breaking the electricity that seemed to have built up in those few seconds. Sherlock quickly turned away and began pacing about the room.

"Yes, where is it? She must have had a phone or an organizer. Find out who Rachel is," Sherlock murmured as an afterthought.

"She was writing 'Rachel'?" Lestrade asked, a bit baffled.

Sherlock gave him his most burning 'don't be obvious' look before snarking, "No, she was leaving an angry note in _German_. Of course she was writing Rachel; no other word it can be." Sherlock spun around once more before pausing to consider the note a moment. "Question is: Why did she wait till she was dying to write it…"

"How'd you know she had a suitcase?" Lestrade asked, crossing his arms almost in defiance.

Impatience rising, Sherlock rolled his eyes and began firing his deductions at light-speed. "Back of the right leg: tiny splash marks on the heel and calf, not present on the left. She was dragging a wheeled suitcase behind her with her right hand. Don't get that splash pattern any other way. Smallish case, going by the spread. Case that size, woman this clothes-conscious: could only be an overnight bag, so we know she was staying one night." Sherlock squatted down, resting his weight on the balls of his feet as he leaned over the body, re-examining the splatter. "Now where is it? What have you done with it?"

Lestrade frowns slightly and says slowly, "There wasn't a case." Sherlock's eyes blaze as he quickly rises and dashes to the door and goes out.

"Suitcase! Did anyone find a suitcase? Was there a suitcase in this house?" Sherlock practically leapt down the stairs, the prospect of this pivotal piece of evidence missing making excitement hum through his veins. He hears the DI's even gait and the doctor's stuttered one as they move to the balcony.

"Sherlock! There was no case!" Lestrade called as John watches on, confusion and uncertainty dancing over his features.

Sherlock pauses, leaning heavily against the banister and looking up, unable to hold his tongue any longer. "But they take the poison themselves; they chew, swallow the pills themselves. There are clear signs, even you lot couldn't miss them."

Lestrade's face twists at the underhanded comment. "Right, yeah, _thanks_. AND?" He still didn't see the significance or the connection between the poison and a suitcase.

"It's murder, all of them. I don't know how, but they're not suicides, they're killings – serial killings," Sherlock announced, practically dancing in place. His fingers fluttered by his mouth, excitement leaking through the appendages. "We've got ourselves a serial killer. I love those. There's always something to look forward to."

"Why are you saying that?" Lestrade asked, still in the dark. Sherlock's patience had run out and he was ready to go, already more than halfway down the stairs.

"Her case! Come on, where is her case? Did she _eat it_?" Sherlock snapped. "Someone else was here, and they took her case." He began speaking softer and quicker, as if to himself. "So the killer must have driven her here; forgot the case was in the car."

"She could have left her case at the hotel; checked in and left it there," John offered. Sherlock gave a small smile. _At least he was making an effort, unlike 'London's Finest', _he thought.

He shook his head slightly. "No, she never got to the hotel. Look at her hair. She color-coordinates her lipstick and her shoes. She'd never have left any hotel with her hair still looking-" The world stopped. Sherlock's mind raced. _Media, color-coordinates, 'Alarming shade of pink'._ Realization dawned. "Oh… OH!" And he knew. Sherlock knew where her suitcase was. Clapping his hands together in delight, Sherlock raced to finish his descent.

"Sherlock?" John calls from the top floor, worry evident in his voice.

Lestrade was less emotional. "What! What is it?!" he yelled over the railing.

Sherlock didn't slow. "Serial killers are always hard. You have to wait for them to make a mistake."

"We can't just _wait_!" Lestrade protested. Sherlock rolled his eyes and paused to glare up at him.

"Oh, we're _done_ waiting!" he countered. Sherlock dashed down a few more steps as he said, "Look at her, really look! Houston, we have a mistake. Get on to Cardiff: find out who Jennifer Wilson's family and friends were." Sherlock reached the ends of the steps and dashed towards the door. "Find Rachel!"

"Of course, yeah," Lestrade called after him. "But WHAT mistake?!" Sherlock quickly dashed back, pulling himself up a few steps and gripping the banister.

"PINK!" was his only response before he dashed out the door into the night.

**(A/N: I hope you're happy with this load [PSST. It's 8 pages]. And I know so far this story has been void of outright Johnlock and these last few chapters have been free of anything relating to the Greek core of the story, but I assure both will come soon. This story has evolved far beyond what I had originally envisioned, much do to the influence of I'm Nova [many, much thanks, btw], and I do so hope you will enjoy reading it as much as I have enjoyed writing it. :3)**


	9. Chapter 9

**(A/N: I know I say this every time, but the immediate response I get absolutely amazes me. In the first 11 hours, chapter 8 of this story had over 600 hits! And I'm just blown away. Thank you guys so much for your continued support and I'm sorry if some of you readers are waiting on others. I suffer from serious writer's block in all other aspects. And I do mean ****_all_****. Nothing is moving. Forget calling it writer's block. This is worse. This is writer's constipation. Now enjoy what I managed to push out. :P)**

John stood stunned at the top of the stairs. He'd only known the man maybe 24 hours, but dashing off in an instant seems to be a common occurrence. _I'll have to get used to that_, John thought absentmindedly before reality caught up. _Wait. I don't know if I'm going to even take the flat. Don't get ahead of yourself,_ he mentally chastised. John turned and his gaze focused on the body of Jennifer Wilson in the other room.

In his mind, John could map every move Sherlock had made about that room, every step and twist and turn that cause his coat to flare out. In his mind, John could still hear Sherlock as he spouted every last secret the woman worked hard to protect as if they were as evident as the sun in the sky. In his mind, John could still feel the mixture of excitement and dread upon entering the room and seeing the body; he could still feel the rush of adrenaline and unexpected joy, the condemning cocktail that controlled John's pulse even now.

Since coming home, John had felt empty, hollow, as he sat around and did nothing and the world around him was silent and the quickest his heart raced was after a nightmare. Even before Afghanistan, as a child, little Johnny would go out in the woods behind his family home and play adventure games with Harry. More often than not, Harry would grow bored and head in, but John remained deep in the forest until he felt so scared his heart would stop. It seems that all his life, John Hamish Watson has craved that rush of adventure, the tug of fear, and even surge of adrenaline that came coupled with death.

And now, after being invalided home from Afghanistan, John Hamish Watson, doctor and soldier and captain, had finally found it again. He'd found a reason to live. _Of all the places, I had to find it in the tall, mysterious, incredibly rude, and just plain incredible man who had just DASHED OUT THE DOOR __**AGAIN**__ WITHOUT GIVING ME A SECOND THOUGHT!_ John's revelation quickly turned into a small bout of anger.

It was bad enough that Sherlock had run off without him. What was worse, however, is the fact that John had been left on the fourth floor of a murder scene where people were starting to swarm. Just as John heard the ferret faced man called out, "Let's get on with it," a wave of officers in blue suits, like the one John was wearing currently, flooded the landing. Heaving a sigh, John waited a moment before beginning the painstakingly slow descent down four flights.

Twice officers rushed past the ex-soldier, once with little more than a whisper of a 'Sorry, mate.' The other left John, clutching onto the railing for his dear life as he teetered, unbalanced. The bastard had pushed into him and dislodged his grip on the cane, a necessity for John's mobility. So for about a minute, John struggled to regain his footing and had to endure the burning looks of pity.

When he finally reached the floor level, and rid himself of that _horrid_ one-piece, John limped outside. He quickly scanned his surroundings, automatically noting the empty rooftops and windows, in search of the consulting detective. John made his way to the yellow police tape that marked the parameter of the crime scene, still keeping an eye out for the dark haired man with the cheekbones and turned up collar.

Sergeant Sally Donovan, who stood by the tape, noticed John's wandering gaze. "He's gone," she said simply.

"Who, Sherlock Holmes?" John did not have the patience to tango with this woman right now.

Sally turned her gaze towards the empty street. "Yeah, he just took off. He does that," she shrugged.

John looked at the cobblestones beneath his feet for a second or two before asking quickly, "Is he coming back?"

"Didn't look like it." John could hear the pity and laughter in her voice.

"Right." John looked around, trying to see if he recognized the street names on the corner. "Right, yes…" He looked to the ground and then back up to the Sergeant and said, as quickly as humanly possible, "Er, d'you know where I could get a cab?" John paused, clenching his eyes for a second. -_IhateitIhateitIhateitIhateit-_ "It's just, er ... well ..." he grimaced and glared at his cane before choking out "… my leg."

Donovan's eyes flashed down to John's leg, "Er…" She lifted her head and then the yellow police tape before gesturing and saying, "Try the main road." John ducks under and nods, saying thanks, before heading off towards what he desperately hopes is the 'main road' as Sally so _helpfully _put it. "But you're not his friend," that, now _extremely _grating, voice pulled John's attention back. He stopped and turned, his neck stiff and jaw locked. "He doesn't _have_ friends." John was getting real tired of this judgmental and assuming attitude Sergeant Sally Donovan seemed to constantly wear. "So who _are_ you?"

John stopped to ponder that for a moment. _Who __**am **__I to Sherlock Holmes? Acquaintance? Flatmate? Colleague? _John shook his head, throwing all those options out for, "I'm … I'm nobody. I just met him."

Sally smirked. "Okay, bit of advice then: stay away from that guy."

"Why?" John didn't really care.

"You know why he's here?" She leaned in, as if she were departing some sort of secret. "He's not paid or anything. He likes it. He gets off on it. The weirder the crime, the more he gets off. And you know what? One day just showing up won't be enough. One day we'll be standing round a body and Sherlock Holmes'll be the one that put it there."

John kept his eyes trained on the ground as he took even breaths. That was a heavy accusation and John nearly broke one of his rules: never punch a lady. _Although Sally Donovan here is making me re-evaluate what actually defines someone as a lady,_ John thought ruefully. "Why would he do that?" he bit out. She must have some reasoning.

"Because he's a psychopath," she said simply, shrugging her shoulders. "And psychopaths get bored." John was on the edge of ripping Sally a new one when Lestrade called for her from the door of the building. She turned to leave, but paused long enough to say, "Stay away from Sherlock Holmes."

John kept his eyes trained on the ground until he felt he could look at Donovan without absolutely losing it. Once his breathing had calmed and his hands were no longer clenched with his short fingernails digging into his palm, John turned about face for the final time and began limping towards the sound of traffic. He'd not taken five steps when the lone phone box to his right began ringing. John pondered it for a minute, toying with the idea of answering it and helping whomever was on the other end, but, after glancing at his watch and seeing how late it was, he decided against it. Not five steps later, the ringing stopped.

* * *

Mycroft Holmes, as he had taken to calling himself this time, watched the man limp towards him. _This couldn't possibly be __**Him**__, _he scoffed. _Surely there must be some mistake. __**He**__ was taller, for one._ But Mycroft knew better than to judge based on outward appearances. Look at him for example.

But when Mycroft had heard that Sherlock brought someone with him to a crime scene, he had to play his hand and pull this John Watson in for questioning. _I am here to protect Sherlock, and protect him I shall._ It wasn't Mycroft's first choice of a job, but it was far better than all the leg-work he had to do previously.

So Mycroft employed his resources and intimidated the doctor. Well maybe not intimidated, but he convinced the man to get in the car. And then, unexpectedly, Doctor John Watson had the insight to realize that not only would he _not_ be told where he was going, but also that the name Mycroft's assistant had supplied a false name. _Definitely promising. _

So here he was, the army doctor glaring at him in a darkened warehouse. Gesturing with his umbrella, Mycroft said softly, "Have a seat, John." The man ignored him and kept limping towards him, his gait, while still uneven, taking on a more militaristic pace and the hand that wasn't gripping the cane was clenched but steady.

"You know I've got a phone," John said glancing around as he continued forward, the very image of calm. "I mean this is very clever and all that, but er… you could just phone me." He paused for effect. "On my phone." When he finally came to a stop, it was a few paces in front of a lone chair.

"When one is avoiding the attention of Sherlock Holmes, one learns to be discreet," Mycroft murmured as he examined the end of his umbrella. _I really outdid myself this time,_ he silently mused. _You can hardly tell…_ He returned his gaze to his guest with a tight smile. "Hence this place," he said, gesturing broadly with his umbrella. Mycroft angled his head towards the chair. "Your leg must be hurting you," he said with all sorts of pleasantries that disappeared with the next phrase. "Sit down."

"I don't want to sit down," John bit out instantly. Mycroft watched the man in front of him as he shifted uncomfortably, showing a weakness for the first time. It was obvious that the doctor's disability bothered him and he didn't care to bring attention to it. But, even in this moment, John Watson's face remained stoic and unmoved, if not a bit more tense along the jaw.

"You don't seem very afraid," Mycroft intoned, tight, businesslike smile back in place.

"You don't seem very frightening," John quipped.

Caught off guard, Mycroft genuinely chuckles, but he quickly recovers. "Ah, yes," he set his smile just a touch less friendly. "The bravery of the soldier." Mycroft paused, as if contemplating even though he had already set up his carefully hidden jabs to see how the doctor would react under the lashings of a harsh tongue. "Bravery is by far the kindest a word for stupidity, don't you think?" He smiled again, but it barely shaped his lips, much less reach his eyes. Then the smile dropped completely. "What is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?"

John didn't flinch, didn't move, except that maybe his eyes hardened. "I don't have one. I barely know him. I met him…" he tilted his head, pondering for a moment, before blinking as if surprised by his own findings, "yesterday."

"Hmm," Mycroft responded, his voice still cold. "And since yesterday you've moved in with him and now you're solving crimes together. Might we be expect a happy announcement by the end of the week?" Mycroft lifted an eyebrow at the muscles on John's cheek that twitched so violently.

"Who _are_ you?" Apparently John had had enough of Mycroft's dancing about the subject.

"An interested party," Mycroft said smoothly. No need for John to know how invested Mycroft was. But John was relentless in his questioning.

"Interested in Sherlock? Why?" John gave him a warning look. _Fascinating, _Mycroft thought with a sly smile. _Already so protective._ "I'm guessing you're not friends."

"You've met him," Mycroft gave what no one would consider a smile; it was closer to a grimace. "How many 'friends' do you imagine he has?" _Truth_… He looked down at his umbrella, his fingers lightly tracing the gold-lined snakes carved into the beech handle. "I am the closest thing to a friend that Sherlock Holmes is capable of having." _Lie_…

John shifted again. "And what's that?"

"An enemy." John repeated the question in disbelief. _Oh. Now I'm starting to see the resemblance,_ Mycroft thought, hiding his amusement by quirking an eyebrow. "In _his _mind, certainly," he sniffed. "If you were to ask him, he'd probably say _arch_enemy. He does love to be dramatic," Mycroft sighed decidedly _not_ dramatically.

John glanced about the cavernous building around them before pinning Mycroft with a pointed look. "Well thank God, you're above all that," he said flatly. Mycroft frowns and a noise breaks the silence. _Probably Sherlock now,_ Mycroft through ruefully. John hold's Mycroft's gaze until he has he phone entirely out of his pocket. Glancing down, the doctor frowns, his brow furrowing.

"I hope I'm not distracting you," Mycroft said sarcastically as the man continued to gaze at his phone.

"Not… distracting me at all," John finally replies, putting the electronic away and looking back up at Mycroft.

Back to business. "Do you plan to continue your association with Sherlock?" Mycroft asked, lightly spinning the umbrella between his fingers.

"I could be wrong…-" John paused, as if gathering his thoughts "-but I think that's none of your business," he finished, setting his jaw and fixing Mycroft his a hard glare.

"It could be."

"It _really _couldn't." John gave a smile that just dripped sarcasm. Without blinking, Mycroft dug into his breast pocket, pulling out a small notebook.

"If you do, move into, um…" Flipping it open, Mycroft looked down at the blank page before him. "Two hundred and twenty-one _B_ Baker Street, I'd be happy to pay you a meaningful sum of money to," he took a moment to close the notebook and put it back in his breast pocket before looking back up at the doctor, "ease your way."

John's eyes remained on Mycroft's face, his own features unchanged. "Why?"

"Because you're not a wealthy man." Mycroft tried to sound a little concerned, although he couldn't care less. This was, after all, just a test of loyalty. If John Hamish Watson couldn't keep his mouth closed when being offered recompense, there is no way he would hold under less… conventional means.

"In exchange for what?" The doctor looked more cautious than curious, as if he didn't trust the deal at all. _At least he's asking the right questions_, Mycroft noted.

"Information. Nothing discreet. Nothing you'd feel," Mycroft eyed John up and down, "uncomfortable with. Just tell me what he's up to."

"Why?"

Mycroft lowered his head slightly, fixing John with a serious look. "Because I worry about him. Constantly."

"That's nice of you," John smirked, obviously doubting the credibility of anything Mycroft said.

"But I would prefer for various reasons that my concern go unmentioned. We have what you might call a ... difficult relationship," Mycroft gave a half smile which quickly disappeared when John's phone made a noise once again.

Pulling it out, John gazed down at the message, the silence stretching. Without looking up, John shot down the offer with a simple, "No." Mycroft lifted an eyebrow, intrigued at the conviction in the man's voice.

"But I haven't mentioned a figure," he tried to coax him into agreeing.

John pocketed the phone, looking back up at Mycroft. "Don't bother." _Good._ Mycroft barked out a laugh.

"You're very loyal, _very_ quickly," he commented.

John tilted his head slightly, jutting his jaw forward. "No. I'm not. I'm just not interested." Mycroft carefully hooked his umbrella on his arm and pulled out the notebook again, flipping it open a few pages.

He gestured towards the scarce writing on the page. "'Trust issues,' it says here." For the first time during the entire encounter, John looked a bit unnerved. He blinked rapidly a few times and shifted from foot to foot, readjusting his grip on the cane.

John looked at the notebook worriedly, swallowing a few times before muttering, "What's that?"

Mycroft hides a smile and continues to keep his eyes on the page before him. "Could it be that you've decided to trust Sherlock Holmes of all people?"

John shifted again. _A tell of his agitation,_ Mycroft noted. "Who says I trust him?" he countered.

"You don't seem the kind to make friends easily," Mycroft added, looking back up at the doctor.

John had obviously had enough. "Are we done?" He turned his body slightly. Mycroft mentally praised the doctor. Initially he'd been tentative to accept who John really was, but, as time passed and some of _His_ qualities began to show, Mycroft grew more sure that Doctor Watson was the right man for Sherlock.

Holding the man's eyes with his own, Mycroft slowly said, "You tell me." John glares back for a second or two before abruptly turning and striding back to the car, his limp far less pronounced than earlier. Mycroft's eyes slide from the doctor's leg to his ramrod straight back to his perfectly steady hand. "I imagine people have already warned you to stay away from him," Mycroft called out to the retreating figure, "but I can see from your left hand that's not going to happen."

John came to a dead halt. His shoulders lifted, tensing, and he lowered his head before he whipped around to face Mycroft again, face a perfect personification of fury, and took a few threatening steps. "My _what_?" he bit out through gritted teeth. _Temper. That's new._

Mycroft set his umbrella securely on the ground, leaning forward on it. He nodded to John's hand, "Show me." John stares at him and doesn't move. _Stubbornness. That's not._ Sighing heavily, Mycroft takes the hint and moves forward himself, hooking his umbrella on his arm as he went. With each step, John's eyes harden and his shoulders tense more, lifting millimeter by millimeter. When Mycroft comes to a stop in front of him, John exhales heavily through his nose and lifts his hand face down, but pulls back, as if burned, when Mycroft reaches forward to grab it.

"Don't," he hisses. Mycroft tilts his head down, giving John a knowing look, and smirks whilst lifting an eyebrow; his own way of saying, _Now, John, didn't I say 'trust issues'?_ After a miniature staring contest, John relents and lowers his hand, flinching when Mycroft grabs it with both of his.

He carefully turned the hand over, fingers lightly brushing the skin of John's palm. "Remarkable," Mycroft breathed.

"What is?" John withdrew his hand, clenching and unclenching it repeatedly, and kept his gaze on the man before him.

Instead of answering, Mycroft turned away and walked back to where he was before. "Most people blunder around this city, and all they see are streets and shops and cars. When you walk with Sherlock Holmes you see the battlefield." Mycroft paused, letting his words sink in before turning to face the doctor. John's face was once again shielded, guarded against the unknown. "You've seen it already, haven't you?"

"What is wrong with my hand?" John ignored Mycroft's question to get back to his own. Mycroft inwardly sighed._ So much for the usual flair. _

"You have an intermittent tremor in your left hand," Mycroft began. John nodded slightly, almost unconsciously. "Your therapist thinks it's post-traumatic stress disorder. She thinks you're haunted by memories of your military service." John shifted, his hand tightening around his cane. It was bad enough that attention was brought to his disability, much less the causes lay bare. He kept his eyes fixed on some object in the distance.

John's jaw twitched and he spat, "Who the _hell_ are you?" He paused, taking a deep breath and calming slightly. "And how do you know that?"

Again, Mycroft chose to ignore the doctor's questions. "Fire her. She's got it the wrong way round." Mycroft smirked, looking pointedly at John's left hand. "You're under stress right now and your hand is perfectly steady." John involuntarily glanced at his hand before returning to stare straight ahead. His face was stony, his eyes hard, and his breaths were heavy as he tried to reign his anger.

Mycroft dropped his voice to just above a whisper, "You're not haunted by the war, Doctor Watson, you miss it." He leaned in and John reluctantly looked up to meet his eyes. "Welcome back," Mycroft whispered before turning. He begins to walk away, casually twirling his umbrella as John's phone trills another text alert. "Time to choose a side, Doctor Watson," Mycroft called before leaving the building.

* * *

John turned slightly to watch the man walk out. He was speechless. Less than a day of association with Sherlock _bloody_ Holmes and he was already being kidnapped and offered money by random men. _Archenemies, apparently,_ John thought ruefully. He huffed a sigh. _Well… I'll never be bored._ This time John didn't even blink at the conviction in the thought. Somehow this man had swept into John's life, brightening it within seconds, and John had finally accepted that he wouldn't go back to how it was before.

A little more than twenty-four hours and John was a new man. All thanks to Sherlock Holmes.

Having made a decision, John turned and walked to the car that had brought him to the building. The woman who had called herself Anthea, even though John immediately saw the lie, stepped out to greet him.

"I'm to take you home," she said with a polite smile. John glanced down at his phone, opening the third message Sherlock had sent him. First it was "Baker Street. Come at once, if convenient." Quickly followed by "If inconvenient, come anyway." This one read:

_Could be dangerous. SH_

John smirked and pocketed the phone, pausing to glance at his completely steady hand. He smiled softly at the sight. For the first time in months, John's hand was still and his mind was clear.

"Address?" 'Anthea' asked, glancing up from her phone.

John looked up at her and smiled, as he began limping towards the car. "Uh… Baker Street. 2-2-1-B Baker Street. But I need to stop off somewhere first."

** (A/N: And a big ginormous thanks to I'm Nova for working with me on some of the finer details of the thickening plot. Hints are the best, don't you think? }:] Have fun trying to figure ****_that_**** one out.)**


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